Chapter 27 - The Fall of the Oligarch
The metal stairs groaned beneath Sal’s weight as he ascended toward the catwalk.
Behind him, the warehouse floor was a graveyard of burning steel and broken mercenaries. Sal carried an empty shotgun in his left hand, letting it drag against the metal railing, producing a rhythmic, terrifying clatter that echoed above the crackle of the flames.
"Vance! Run!" Bellini shouted, turning toward the emergency exit at the rear of the catwalk. The old Sicilian mobster had seen enough. He knew when a blood feud was lost.
Hector Vance, however, pulled a nickel-plated automatic from his shoulder holster, his hands shaking violently as he aimed it down the stairs. "Stay back! Do you know who I am?! I have senators on my payroll! I have the governor in my pocket! You kill me, Salvatore, and the entire federal government will hunt you down like a rabid dog!"
Sal didn't stop. He didn't even raise his weapon. He kept walking up the steps, his gaze locked onto Vance’s trembling eyes.
"You threatened my boy," Sal said, his voice quiet, calm, and heavier than lead.
"It was business!" Vance screeched, backing toward the railing. "It was just leverage! The docks are worth billions!"
"My son's smile is worth the universe," Sal replied.
Vance pulled the trigger.
*BANG!*
The 9mm slug tore through Sal’s left shoulder, spinning him slightly. Sal grunted in pain, his jaw clenching, but his feet never stopped moving. He didn't fall. He didn't retreat. He simply absorbed the bullet, stepped onto the catwalk platform, and closed the distance.
Vance tried to fire again, but Sal’s right hand struck like a striking viper.
Sal grabbed Vance’s gun hand, twisting the wrist with sickening torque. The bones in Vance’s wrist shattered; the nickel-plated gun dropped from useless fingers and clattered over the edge, falling fifty feet into the burning wreckage below.
Vance shrieked in agony, dropping to his knees. "Please! I’ll give you the bonds! I’ll transfer the entire syndicate's assets! Ten million... fifty million in clean Swiss accounts!"
Sal grabbed Vance by his expensive cashmere lapels and hoisted the billionaire off his feet, slamming him back against the safety railing. The cold wind from the bay howled through the shattered warehouse windows behind them.
"You can keep your money, Hector," Sal rumbled, leaning in until Vance could smell the smoke and iron on his breath. "In hell, you can use it to buy ice water."
Sal pivoted on his heel, using Vance’s own momentum, and hurled the billionaire over the catwalk railing.
Vance didn't even have time to scream before his body struck the concrete floor sixty feet below with a sickening, final thud.
At the far end of the catwalk, Don Giancarlo Bellini stood frozen before the locked emergency door, his walking cane trembling against the floorboards. When he turned around, Sal was already standing five feet away, wiping the blood from his wounded shoulder.
"Salvatore..." Bellini whispered in trembling Sicilian, holding up his hands. "We are men of the old tradition. We respect the old laws. Omertà. Let me take the morning flight back to Milan. I swear on the Madonna, no Bellini will ever cross the Atlantic again."
Sal stopped. He looked at the old mob boss. For a long, silent moment, the only sound was the rain and the roaring fire below.
"You broke the old laws when you sent a photo of my seven-year-old child, Giancarlo," Sal said, his voice devoid of hatred, holding only the cold certainty of divine judgment. "There is no flight to Milan."
Bellini closed his eyes, his lips moving in a silent prayer.
Sal pulled his .45 from his belt.
*Thwip.*
A single shot echoed softly through the railyard. Bellini slumped against the wall and slid down to the floor, motionless.
Sal stood alone atop the catwalk in the burning warehouse, breathing heavily, the pain in his shoulder throbbing like a furnace. He looked down at his bloodstained hands, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone.
He dialed Frank.
"Frank," Sal said, his voice raspy. "Vance is dead. Bellini is dead. The shipments are destroyed."
On the other end, Frank’s voice didn't carry relief. It carried sheer, unadulterated panic.
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*"SAL! GET OUT OF THERE! IT WAS A TRAP!"* Frank yelled over the phone. *"Vance didn't hire the strike team! He was just the money man! The strike team... they were federal black-ops contractors! They’ve declared you an active domestic terrorist! The Coast Guard and federal tactical units are moving on Staten Island right now! They’re raiding the chapel for Mateo!"*
***
