Chapter 13 - The Fractured Syndicate
We returned to the estate under armed escort while the afternoon rain washed the salt and blood from the convoy’s tires.
The news of Salvatore’s execution at Terminal Four tore through the five boroughs before the sun even dipped below the horizon.
Two captains dead within three days—Julian Mela drowned in the harbor, and Salvatore laid out on the docks—proved beyond all doubt that Luca Valente was purging his ranks with merciless precision.
Inside the grand library, the fire crackled in the stone hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across the mahogany shelves.
Marco stood before Luca’s desk, reviewing a series of intercepted radio transcripts on his tablet.
“The remaining captains from Queens and Staten Island have locked down their boroughs,” Marco reported, his voice low and serious.
“They are terrified. They don't know who is on your list, Don Luca. Chicago has sent a formal envoy to the neutral territory in Manhattan, demanding an audience to negotiate the debt Julian created.”
Luca sat behind the desk, a small bandage taped over the cut on his cheek.
He was cleaning the disassembled components of his firearm with methodical, rhythmic strokes of an oiled rag.
“There are no debts owed to Chicago,” Luca said without looking up.
“Julian’s deals died when Julian hit the harbor floor. If Moretti wants his money, he can cross the river and come collect it himself.”
I entered the room carrying a silver tray with two cups of chamomile tea, setting it quietly beside the scattered paperwork on his desk.
Mia was fast asleep upstairs in her massive canopy bed, completely exhausted by the day’s violence, guarded by four loyal men outside her door.
“You cannot fight Chicago and the federal government at the same time, Luca,” I spoke, crossing my arms against the chill in the room.
Luca paused his cleaning, looking up into my eyes.
“I am not fighting them alone anymore, Anna,” he replied softly.
“That is what terrifies me,” I countered, stepping closer so Marco wouldn't hear the raw fear in my voice.
“For four years, I was just a ghost who washed sheets. Now, Mia is sitting on the Don’s throne, and men are shooting high-caliber rifles at our cars. How long until someone bypasses the perimeter gates with something worse than a sniper?”
Luca stood up, walking around the desk until he was inches from me, his presence commanding yet gentle.
“The world you lived in before did not protect you, Anna,” Luca said, his deep voice vibrating with quiet intensity.
“If you were still in that small apartment in Chicago, Moretti’s scouts would have found you the moment Julian leaked your file. Here, behind my iron, every man who draws breath will take a bullet before anyone reaches that playroom.”
He reached out, his hand cupping the side of my neck, warm and steady against my pulse.
“I am not letting you run into the dark again. Neither of you.”
The silence between us was heavy with words left unsaid for five long years.
Before I could answer, Marco cleared his throat, his face grim as he stared down at a fresh alert on his screen.
“Don Luca,” Marco interrupted, his voice tight.
“The federal task force just served a subpoena at the front gate. They’ve seized the primary holding accounts in Manhattan under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act.”
Luca’s hand dropped from my neck, his eyes turning back into hard, unreadable slate.
“Who signed the warrant?” Luca demanded.
“District Attorney Vance,” Marco answered, handing over the digital notice.
“And according to our courthouse sources, Vance didn't get his probable cause from the docks. Someone delivered a physical binder of family transactions directly to his private residence at noon today.”
I froze, a dreadful chill washing through my veins.
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Julian was dead, and Salvatore was dead.
Yet the family’s innermost secrets were still leaking out into the daylight like water through a broken dam.
