Chapter 9 - The Ghost’s Banquet
The following evening, the fog rolled off the river like thick, gray cotton, swallowing the grounds of the Rossi estate.
At the Grand Harbor Yacht Club, a sleek, eighty-foot black cruiser named the Siren slipped silently into its berth.
Three men in dark trench coats and fedoras stepped onto the wet wooden dock, followed by an older man with silver hair.
Salvatore Moretti, the ruthless underboss of the southern New York syndicate, carried a gold-tipped walking cane.
His face was carved from sixty years of extortion, contract killings, and cold, calculated boardroom takeovers.
Beside him walked two heavy enforcers carrying leather briefcases filled with notarized municipal title deeds.
Waiting on the pier was Arthur Vance, shivering violently inside his damp overcoat, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
A black town car with heavily tinted windows stood idling at the edge of the marina parking lot with its lights off.
"Arthur," Moretti greeted him, his New York accent thick, gravelly, and dripping with condescension.
"You look like a drowned rat. Where is your brother? I don't deal with the bookkeeper when seventy million is on the table."
Arthur swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper as he looked at the two enforcers flanking Moretti.
"My brother had to... had to handle the federal filings for the probate court, Mr. Moretti," Arthur stammered, following the script.
"Victor Rossi is completely broken. He hasn't left his mother's bedside since she passed away last night."
"Audrey is waiting for us at the estate with the signed power of attorney documents."
"She insisted that we close the transaction in the private library away from any city eyes."
Moretti chuckled, a dry, wheezing sound that ended in a cough as he adjusted the collar of his tailored overcoat.
"Poor Victor," Moretti sneered, lighting an expensive cigar against the damp river wind.
"He always was too soft for this business. Letting a woman run his household while he plays tough guy on the docks."
"Let's get this finished. I want to be back in New Jersey before the morning ferries start running."
The four men climbed into the back of the idling town car, the heavy doors sealing with a heavy, pressurized thud.
The vehicle rolled out of the marina, driving through the silent, fog-drenched streets toward the affluent northern bluffs.
Inside the car, Arthur Vance kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, his fingernails digging bloody crescents into his thighs.
He knew that three blocks away, hidden in the fog, two unmarked surveillance vans were tracking their exact GPS location.
The town car turned through the massive wrought-iron gates of the Rossi estate, crunching slowly up the gravel driveway.
The grand limestone mansion was shrouded in total darkness, save for two dim lamps glowing in the second-floor windows.
It looked like a house in deep, reverent mourning, abandoned to grief and shadow.
The car stopped in front of the sweeping stone steps, and the driver immediately cut the engine.
"Quiet place," Moretti noted, looking up at the high slate roofs and dark casement windows.
"A dead house for a dead family," Arthur whispered, his voice trembling so badly he could barely push the words out.
Moretti and his two enforcers stepped out into the mist, their leather shoes clicking softly against the flagstones.
The massive oak front doors were slightly ajar, warm amber light spilling across the wet marble threshold.
Moretti pushed the door open with the brass tip of his cane, stepping into the cavernous, two-story entrance hall.
The air smelled intensely of fresh lilies and burning beeswax candles.
In the center of the hall, resting on an elevated velvet catafalque beneath the crystal chandelier, sat a polished walnut casket.
The lid was closed, draped in heavy black lace and surrounded by dozens of white funeral arrangements.
Moretti stopped, taking off his fedora with a theatrical, mocking gesture of mock solemnity.
"Ah, Sylvia," Moretti murmured, stepping toward the casket with a triumphant smirk.
"You should have sold me the docks twenty years ago when your husband took that long walk off the pier."
"Now your little boy loses everything, and you don't even get to see the checks clear."
From the shadows of the second-floor gallery above, a dry, raspy voice echoed through the high marble rafters.
"I can see the checks just fine, Salvatore."
Moretti’s head snapped upward, his hand darting instinctively inside his coat toward his hidden shoulder holster.
His two enforcers drew their automatic pistols in a fraction of a second, aiming their barrels toward the mezzanine.
Standing at the top of the sweeping marble staircase was Sylvia Rossi.
She was dressed in an immaculate, midnight-blue silk dress, her silver hair styled in an elegant, unbroken roll.
She leaned lightly on a polished rosewood cane, but her posture was straight, proud, and completely unyielding.
Beside her stood Marta, holding a small silver tray with a cup of hot broth, looking down with calm, steady eyes.
Moretti took two steps backward, his jaw dropping as if he had just witnessed an angel fall from the sky.
"What... what kind of sick trick is this?" Moretti stammered, his gravelly voice cracking in genuine terror.
"You're dead. Arthur said you had a cardiac arrest yesterday morning!"
From behind the heavy velvet curtains of the formal dining room, Victor stepped into the grand hall.
He was wearing a black double-breasted suit, his hands clasped casually behind his back.
Behind him came Luca and eight heavily armed Rossi soldiers, their weapons raised and trained directly on the New York crew.
"Arthur lied to you, Salvatore," Victor said, his voice cold, steady, and terrifyingly polite.
"Just like Audrey lied to me about my mother's medicine."
"Just like Judge Vance lied to the grand jury about his offshore bank accounts."
Moretti spun around, leveling his pistol directly at Victor’s chest, his eyes wild with fury.
"You set me up, you little dock rat!" Moretti roared, his finger tightening on the trigger.
"Drop your weapons or I put a hole through your lungs right now!"
Victor did not flinch, nor did he reach for a gun.
He raised his right hand and snapped his fingers once.
From every entrance, every archway, and the service corridors behind them, red laser targeting dots illuminated the room.
Dozens of red beams danced across Moretti’s chest, forehead, and throat, steady as surgical scalpels.
"You are out of your jurisdiction, Moretti," Victor said quietly.
May you like
"You brought three guns into a fortress that has buried three generations of men tougher than you."
"Drop the iron, or my men will turn this foyer into an abattoir before your shell hits the floor."
