Chapter 7 - The Midnight Ultimatum
The black convoy of three armored SUVs slid silently through the rain-slicked streets of Queens, cutting off its headlights a block away from Vasquez Bakery.
The neighborhood was dead silent. The streetlights flickered erratically in the damp night air, casting long, eerie shadows across shuttered storefronts and cracked sidewalks.
As we rounded the corner onto Fifth Street, we saw them.
Three dark sedans parked haphazardly across the curb directly in front of Vasquez Bakery. Six men in leather jackets stood on the sidewalk, smoking cigarettes, baseball bats resting casually against their shoulders. Two of them were kicking the front glass door of the bakery, trying to force the deadbolt.
"Stay in the vehicles until I give the word," I commanded quietly over the internal comms.
Before the SUVs had even come to a complete stop, I pushed the passenger door open and stepped out into the freezing rain.
Bruno was out the door before my feet hit the pavement.
The mastiff didn't bark, didn't howl—he moved like a hundred-and-twenty-pound shadow cutting across the wet asphalt, silent and blindingly fast.
The six enforcers didn't even realize what was happening until Bruno hit the first man like a freight train. The guy went flying backward, his baseball bat clattering loudly against the pavement as Bruno planted a massive paw squarely on his chest, baring yellowed, bone-crushing teeth inches from his throat.
The other five enforcers scrambled, reaching frantically for the concealed firearms inside their jackets.
Click.
The barrel of my Remington shotgun caught the streetlamp light with a sharp metallic gleam as I leveled it directly at the chest of the man standing closest to the bakery door.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," I said, my voice cutting through the rain like a razor. "Unless you want your remains shipped back to Brooklyn in a shoebox."
The men froze. Their hands hovered nervously over their holsters, eyes darting between my shotgun, the cold barrel of Tony’s pistol as he stepped out of the second SUV, and the massive, snarling beast pinning their comrade to the concrete.
"Victor Moretti," one of the enforcers choked out, his face losing all its color. "This... this is Castellano territory. Paul said—"
"Paul doesn't know arithmetic," I interrupted, taking a slow step forward. "He forgot to calculate the cost of doing business in my neighborhood."
The front door of the bakery creaked open.
Mateo Vasquez peered out into the rain, holding a heavy iron rolling pin in his trembling hand. When he saw me standing in the center of the street with a shotgun, and Bruno standing guard over a terrified Brooklyn goon, the rolling pin slowly slipped from his fingers and hit the tile floor with a dull clank.
"Victor..." Mateo whispered.
"Go back inside, Mateo," I said without looking away from the enforcers. "The bakery is closed."
"What is going on out here?" a harsh, arrogant voice called out from the back seat of the lead Brooklyn sedan.
The rear door swung open, and Paul Castellano stepped out into the rain, flanked by two more bodyguards. He wore an expensive camel-hair coat, a gold Rolex glinting on his wrist, and a smug, confident smirk plastered across his face.
"Well, well, well," Paul sneered, adjusting his lapels. "The legendary Victor Moretti, playing neighborhood hero for a broke pastry chef. I didn't realize your syndicate had turned into a charity organization, Vic."
I didn't lower my shotgun. I simply walked three steps closer, the rain soaking through my wool coat, my eyes locked onto Paul’s smug face.
"Paul," I said smoothly. "You have thirty seconds to get back in your car, take your garbage enforcers, and drive back to Brooklyn before my dog decides your throat makes a chew toy."
Paul’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, replaced by a flash of genuine anger. He signaled his bodyguards to draw their weapons.
"You're out-gunned, old man," Paul snarled. "This city is changing. Your time is—"
Before Paul could finish his sentence, Bruno let out a roar that shook the windows of every building on the block—a sound so primal and terrifying that Paul’s bodyguards instinctively took a step backward, their hands trembling on the grips of their guns.
At the same moment, the rear doors of all three Moretti SUVs clicked open simultaneously, and twelve heavily armed men stepped out into the rain, raising assault rifles with laser sights that instantly painted red dots across Paul Castellano’s chest.
The street went dead silent.
Paul swallowed hard, the arrogance evaporating from his eyes in a single heartbeat as he looked down at the red laser dot glowing directly over his heart.
"Still feel like expanding your territory, Paul?" I asked softly.
Paul stared at me for three agonizing seconds, his chest heaving, his fingers twitching against his coat buttons. Then, slowly, he raised his hands.
May you like
"Pull your men back," Paul muttered, his voice tight with humiliation. "We're leaving."
"You're leaving," I agreed. "And if any of your men ever come within three blocks of Vasquez Bakery again, I won't just send my dog. I'll come myself."
