Chapter 6 - THE USURPER'S CROWN
Back at the Weston estate, Victor Moretti was basking in the glow of his sudden, violent ascension.
Dominic’s lifeless body lay on the rug, covered haphazardly by a tablecloth. Dr. Aris stood by, his head bowed in mock grief. The guests were frozen in their seats, surrounded by Victor’s men, who had drawn their weapons and secured the perimeter of the dining room. The loyalist capos, outnumbered and caught off guard by the sudden assassination, had been forced to surrender their sidearms.
“This is a tragedy,” Victor announced, pacing at the head of the table, savoring every syllable. He stepped over Dominic’s legs with casual disrespect. “Dominic was a great man. But he grew weak. He let a simple baker bypass his million-dollar security system. Boston needs strength. It needs vision. It needs a king who isn't afraid to get his hands dirty.”
He turned his gaze to the frightened politicians and crime bosses. “From this moment on, the Moretti family assumes control of the port, the unions, and the offshore accounts. Anyone who has a problem with this transition can join Dominic on the floor.”
Silence reigned. Fear was a powerful motivator, and Victor wielded it like a club.
Clara was shoved hard against the wall near the kitchen doors, the cold steel of a gun barrel digging painfully into her spine. She watched Victor gloat, a sick feeling twisting in her stomach. Where was the counter-attack? Had Dominic’s pill worked too well? Was he actually dead?
“As for this treacherous little rat,” Victor sneered, walking over to Clara. He grabbed her by the chin, his grip bruising. “You thought you could walk in here, poison the boss, and walk out with my money? You’re dumber than your brother.”
“I didn't poison him,” Clara spat, adrenaline making her reckless.
Victor laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Tell that to the corpse, sweetheart.” He looked at the guard holding her. “Take her out to the gardens. Put two in the back of her head. Bury her under the hydrangeas.”
The guard grabbed Clara’s arm, hauling her toward the French doors leading to the patio. Clara dug her heels into the expensive rug, fighting wildly. “No! Let go of me!”
Victor turned his back on her, walking toward the head of the table to pour himself a glass of Dominic’s expensive Barolo. He raised the glass to the room.
“To a new era,” Victor proclaimed.
“You’re drinking my wine, Victor.”
The voice didn't come from the doorway. It didn't come from the guards. It came from the floor.
The heavy mahogany table shuddered. The tablecloth covering Dominic’s body was cast aside.
Victor froze, the wine glass stopping inches from his lips. The blood drained from his face as he turned around.
Dominic Russo pushed himself up off the floor, rolling his shoulders and adjusting the cuffs of his tuxedo. The ashen pallor had faded from his skin, replaced by a terrifying, cold fury. He looked like a demon rising from the underworld, utterly unfazed by his recent 'death'.
Gasps echoed through the room. Several of Victor’s men took a frightened step backward, their guns wavering.
“How...?” Victor stammered, dropping the crystal glass. It shattered on the marble floor, a sharp, violent sound. “I saw you die! The poison...”
“Was given to a woman with more loyalty and courage in her little finger than you possess in your entire miserable existence,” Dominic finished, stepping over the broken chair.
As if on cue, the heavy oak doors of the dining room burst open. Silas, drenched in rain, stepped into the room holding a suppressed submachine gun, followed by a dozen of Dominic’s heavily armed loyalists who had been waiting in the wings for the signal.
“The bakery is secure, Boss,” Silas announced, his weapon trained on Victor. “The brother is safe. Dante is dead.”
Victor’s eyes darted around the room, realizing the trap he had walked blindly into. His men were vastly outnumbered, surrounded by Silas’s tactical team and the loyal capos who were now reclaiming their confiscated weapons.
“Kill him!” Victor screamed at his remaining guards, pulling a silver pistol from his shoulder holster.
Nobody moved. Victor’s men slowly placed their weapons on the floor and raised their hands, realizing the war was already lost.
Victor snarled in rage. Realizing he had no way out, he lunged toward Clara, intending to use her as a human shield.
He didn't make it two steps.
Dominic moved with blinding speed. He didn't shout. He didn't hesitate. He drew a sleek, black handgun from the small of his back and fired a single, deafening shot.
The bullet struck Victor perfectly in the center of his chest. The underboss stopped dead in his tracks, a look of profound shock registering on his face. He looked down at the blossoming red stain on his charcoal suit, then collapsed to his knees, pitching forward onto the carpet.
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Dominic lowered the gun, his breathing steady. The room was deathly quiet, the smell of cordite overpowering the scent of vanilla and amaretto.
“The King is not dead,” Dominic said softly, looking around the room at the terrified politicians and bosses. “He was just resting his eyes. Silas, clean up this mess.”
