Chapter 5 - The Underworld Trembles
By dawn, the news had spread through the dark underbelly of Harbor City like wildfire through dry brush.
Dominic Kane was back.
For two years, the criminal underworld had whispered that the king was dead—that the bullet had broken his mind as well as his spine, and that his vast empire was ripe for the taking.
Vito Moretti had been the loudest voice of that rumor.
Sitting in the back booth of an upscale downtown seafood restaurant that served as his unofficial headquarters, Moretti was laughing over a plate of eggs Benedict.
“The cripple is finished,” Moretti told his two lieutenants, pouring heavy cream into his coffee. “He hasn't left that stone fortress in six months. His guards are getting sloppy. By next week, we take over the Route 4 shipping corridor.”
The restaurant doors didn't open with a bang.
They opened quietly.
Four men in tailored black suits walked in.
They didn't draw guns.
They didn't yell.
They simply walked straight to Moretti’s table, placed four heavy, manila envelopes on the white tablecloth, and stood there like statues carved from granite.
Moretti’s smile faded. “What is this?”
One of the men—a senior enforcer named Marcus who had worked for Dominic for fifteen years—leaned down and spoke in a flat, conversational tone.
“Mr. Kane sends his regards.”
Moretti ripped open the first envelope.
Inside were deeds, titles, and bank routing numbers—every single shell company Moretti owned, registered under his cousin's name to evade federal taxes, now completely frozen by Swiss and Cayman financial institutions controlled by Dominic’s private foundation.
Moretti turned pale. “This… this is impossible. These accounts are encrypted—”
“Mr. Kane bought the bank that held the encryption keys yesterday afternoon,” Marcus interrupted smoothly.
Moretti ripped open the second envelope.
Inside were photographs of his primary drug warehouse on the East River—the one protected by armed guards and double-locked steel doors.
Except in the photographs, the warehouse was currently surrounded by three tactical units of Harbor City police, accompanied by federal marshals executing a no-knock raid based on "anonymous tips" provided by a high-level informant.
Moretti stood up so fast his chair crashed backward onto the tiled floor.
“Where is he?!” Moretti screamed, his face turning purple with rage and terror. “Get me Kane on the phone! I want a sit-down!”
Marcus looked at Moretti with absolute pity—the genuine, cold pity Dominic despised.
“Mr. Kane doesn't do sit-downs with small-time thieves,” Marcus said quietly. “And he specifically asked me to give you one final message.”
May you like
Moretti swallowed hard, his voice trembling. “What… what message?”
“You touched the wrong person’s life,” Marcus said. “Pack your bags, Vito. You have two hours to catch a flight to Sicily. If you’re still in Harbor City at noon, the police won't be the only ones looking for you.”
