Chapter 7 - The Crown of Thorns
Winter hit New York a week later with a brutal, unforgiving blizzard. The streets of Manhattan were buried beneath a foot of snow, the city grinding to a halt. But the underworld never stopped moving.
Elena stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of her new penthouse office in Midtown. The city stretched out below her, a blanket of white obscuring the dirt and blood of the streets. She took a sip of black coffee, feeling the weight of the city pressing against the glass.
The transition of power had been surprisingly smooth. The revelation at the sit-down had terrified the rival families into submission, and Volkov’s severed finger, mailed back to him in a velvet box, had ensured the Russians stayed firmly in Brooklyn.
But true power didn't just require external dominance; it required internal loyalty.
The door to her office opened. Marco, her father’s most trusted captain—and now hers—stepped in. He was a veteran of the street wars of the nineties, a man who respected strength above all else.
“Boss,” Marco said, his voice gravelly. He didn't say 'Underboss'. He knew who was really running the day-to-day operations now. Dominic had stepped back into an advisory role, tired of the constant vigilance.
“What is it, Marco?” Elena asked, not turning away from the window.
“We have a problem at the docks. One of our foremen, a guy named Sal, was found dead this morning. Shot twice in the back of the head. Tied to a shipping container.”
Elena frowned, finally turning around. “A message?”
“Looks like it. But not from the Russians. Not from the Five Families. We did some digging. Sal was skimming from the electronics shipments. We think a rogue crew from Jersey caught him trying to sell their stolen goods and made an example out of him.”
“Jersey,” Elena murmured. The DeCavalcante family. A smaller outfit, but notoriously violent and unpredictable. They operated outside the rules of the New York Commission.
“They want to test the waters,” Marco said grimly. “They heard a woman is running the Ferraros. They think we’re soft. They think they can step on our toes and we’ll just send a strongly worded letter.”
Elena walked over to her mahogany desk and set her coffee cup down. She looked at the skull lighter resting near her computer keyboard—a reminder of the night everything changed.
“If we let this slide, Marco, everyone will smell blood in the water. Today it’s a foreman. Tomorrow it’s a capo. We cannot afford to look weak.”
“I’ll assemble a hit squad,” Marco offered, cracking his knuckles. “We go across the river, find the crew responsible, and light up their social club.”
“No,” Elena said sharply. “That’s how men fight. Loud, messy, and leaving a trail of bodies for the feds to follow. We are going to do this my way.”
Marco looked confused. “Your way?”
“I need you to find out which restaurant the Jersey crew’s captain eats at every Friday night. I don't want his soldiers. I want the man who gave the order.”
Three hours later, Marco returned with the information. The Jersey captain, a brute named ‘Tommy Two-Times’, frequented a high-end steakhouse in Newark. He always sat in the back booth, surrounded by bodyguards.
Elena smiled. It was the same old story. Men with guns, sitting in restaurants, thinking they were safe because they could see the front door.
“Get my coat,” Elena said, reaching into the bottom drawer of her desk. She pulled out a small, velvet-lined box containing three syringes filled with a clear, lethal neurotoxin. “We’re taking a trip to New Jersey.”
Marco hesitated. “Boss, you shouldn't be doing field work. You’re the Underboss. We have guys for this.”
Elena stopped, looking Marco dead in the eyes. Her gaze was as cold as the blizzard raging outside.
“My father survived for thirty years because he let other men do his killing, and it almost got him poisoned at his own dinner table. I am not my father. I lead from the front. If the streets think I am soft because I am a woman, I will remind them why they should fear the shadows.”
May you like
Marco swallowed hard, nodding slowly. “Yes, boss. I’ll get the car.”
Elena slipped the syringes into the pockets of her designer coat. The coat-check girl was dead, but the lessons she had learned would live forever. The people in power never looked at the hands pouring their wine.
