Chapter 8 - The Gathering at the Crypt
The war could not be won on the streets; it had to be finished where it began—in the shadows of the old families.
At 9:00 p.m., a single black SUV drove through the gates of St. Jude’s Cemetery in Queens. The ancient stone monuments and weeping willows looked like silent ghosts under a heavy, starless sky.
The vehicle stopped in front of the massive, granite Falcone mausoleum—the final resting place of Vincent Falcone and generations of his ancestors.
Inside the crypt, the air was cold, smelling of old stone and dried roses.
Standing in the center of the marble room, surrounded by six armed guards, was Don Dominic Maroni—the head of the Maroni family. He was an old man, his hair completely white, his face lined with a lifetime of cruelty and greed. He looked at the bronze plaques on the walls with a look of intense satisfaction.
"You chose a strange place for a meeting, Serrano," Dominic said as Dante and Clara walked through the stone archway. His voice was raspy, like dry leaves scraping across a driveway.
"It’s not a meeting, Dominic," Dante said, his hands tucked inside his leather coat, his soldiers forming a perimeter behind him. "It’s a funeral."
Dominic laughed, a dry, coughing sound. "You think because you took my docks, you own this city? I have five hundred men under arms, Dante. By tomorrow morning, I will turn your tower into a chimney."
"You don't have five hundred men anymore, Dominic," Clara said, stepping forward out of the shadows.
Dominic froze. His old eyes squinted through the dim candlelight of the crypt. His jaw dropped slightly, his walking stick trembling against the marble floor.
"Vincent..." he whispered, his voice cracking as he looked at her face. "No. You’re his ghost."
"I'm his daughter, Dominic," Clara said, her voice echoing off the stone walls like a judgement. "And I have something that belongs to you."
She pulled the black leather ledger from her coat, holding it up.
"The FBI received a digital copy of this ledger one hour ago," Clara said, her voice steady and lethal. "At this exact moment, federal agents are raiding your house in Long Island, your offices in Manhattan, and your bank accounts in Switzerland. Your captains are being arrested as we speak. You aren't a Don anymore, Dominic. You are a federal prisoner."
Dominic’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn't answer it. He looked at the ledger, then at the face of the woman he had tried to burn alive six years ago. The realization of his complete, utter ruin washed over his old features, leaving him looking frail and small.
He looked at his six guards, silently ordering them to raise their weapons.
May you like
But the guards didn't move. They looked at Dante, then at Clara, and then slowly lowered their pistols, stepping back into the shadows of the crypt. They were professionals—and they knew when a war was over.
"You lose, Dominic," Dante said, stepping closer. "For your father," he whispered to Clara.
