Chapter 12 - The Don's Final Tribute
The silence left in the wake of the prosecutor's retreat was so absolute that the rhythmic hum of Don Bernardo's oxygen tank sounded like a death rattle.
The Moretti bodyguards stood motionless, their weapons still concealed, their eyes fixed on the concrete floor.
They knew the war was over.
They were street soldiers, and street soldiers know instinctively when their general has been outmaneuvered and rendered completely powerless.
Don Bernardo raised his trembling hand and pulled the plastic cannula from his nostrils, his chest heaving with the effort to draw air.
"You think you have won, Roman?" the old man hissed, his voice trembling with bitter malice.
"You think you can take over this city with an accountant's orphan at your side?"
"The other families will never respect a boss who takes his orders from a woman."
"They won't be taking orders from her, Bernardo," Roman said, stepping up to the small metal table and looking down at the shrunken patriarch.
"They will be taking orders from me."
"And if any capo in the Five Boroughs even glances in her direction without lowering his head, I will butcher his entire bloodline down to the third generation."
Roman picked up the remaining sheaf of papers from the portfolio.
"These are the irrevocable transfer deeds for the Red Hook shipping terminals, the Long Island cold-storage facilities, and the waste-management contracts in North Jersey."
"You will sign them over to Caster Logistics Holdings."
"Every single one."
Don Bernardo glared at the documents as if they were dipped in poison.
"And what do I get in return, boy?"
"You get to breathe," Roman answered coldly.
"You get to spend your remaining six months in your mansion in Westchester, dying in your bed instead of choking to death on a plastic evidence bag in a holding cell like David Hayes."
The old man’s jaw clamped shut, his eyes flashing with the memory of the murder he had ordered twenty years ago.
He slowly turned his head to look at Khloe.
"And you, girl..." Bernardo whispered, a yellowed sneer exposing his teeth.
"You think you're safe with him?"
"He's a monster."
"He killed your father's enemies not out of love, but out of greed."
"The moment you outlive your usefulness, he will discard you like an old receipt."
Khloe stepped forward, walking directly up to the wheelchair until she was looking straight down into the dying don's face.
She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out the simple, heavy signet ring that had belonged to her father—a ring she had kept hidden in a velvet pouch for eighteen years—and placed it gently on Bernardo's lap.
"My father died an honest man, Don Bernardo," Khloe said, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper that made the old man flinch.
"You are going to die an empty, forgotten relic who lost his entire empire to the daughter of the man he murdered."
"Sign the papers."
"Or I tell Roman to let the feds take you to Rikers Island tonight."
Don Bernardo stared at the gold ring resting against his blanket.
His wrinkled, liver-spotted hands trembled so violently that he could barely grip the pen Roman shoved toward him.
Slowly, with agonizing hesitation, the old man pressed the ink to the paper.
He signed his name across thirteen separate deeds of transfer, surrendering seventy years of organized crime dominance in a matter of two minutes.
When the final signature was dried, Roman reached down, scooped up the contracts, and handed them back to Khloe.
"Take your father back to the car, Marco," Roman commanded, his gaze shifting to the bruised, shivering heir.
"And remember what I told you in the basement."
"If I ever catch you within five miles of Khloe, I won't just break your fingers."
"I will bury you under the concrete foundation of Terminal Four."
Marco didn't dare answer.
He grabbed the handles of his father's wheelchair, turned the heavy machine around, and practically ran toward the waiting Escalade, his bodyguards hurrying behind him like beaten dogs.
The three luxury SUVs accelerated out of the dry dock, their headlights fading into the stormy night, leaving the cavernous warehouse in total, echoing quiet.
Roman stood beneath the halogen light, staring at the empty bay doors.
He let out a long, slow breath, the tension that had held his shoulders rigid for forty-eight hours finally easing.
He turned toward Khloe.
She was standing with the portfolio pressed against her chest, her eyes wide, staring at the puddle of water where Don Bernardo's car had been idling.
The adrenaline that had sustained her through the raid, the basement shootout, and the tense surrender was beginning to recede.
Her knees buckled.
Before she could touch the wet concrete, Roman lunged forward, catching her around the waist with his left arm and pulling her firmly against his chest.
"I have you," Roman whispered, his gravelly voice filled with an unexpected, overwhelming warmth.
"I have you, Khloe."
She buried her face into the damp wool of his overcoat, her fingers gripping the lapels, and let out a long, ragged sob that shook her entire frame.
She had spent eight years running.
Eight years hiding behind oversized acrylic sweaters, fake smiles, and thick tortoiseshell glasses.
May you like
The debt was paid.
The ghost was finally free.
