Chapter 10 - The Courier from Manhattan
The security gate at the lower entrance of Hallowmere Manor was usually as impassable as a medieval drawbridge. Today, it was surrounded by the acrid smell of scorched rubber and boiling radiator fluid.
A sleek, black European sedan was jammed sideways against the reinforced iron bollards, its front grille smashed inward where it had misjudged the automatic barrier. Two of Domenico’s private guards stood with their hands resting casually near their jackets, weapons concealed but ready, while Marcus marched toward the driver's side.
Corrie and Domenico arrived a minute later in a dark utility cart. As Domenico stepped down, his presence alone seemed to drop the ambient temperature by ten degrees.
Marcus wrenched the driver’s door open. Slumping behind the steering wheel was not a hitman or an enforcer, but a middle-aged man in a rumpled charcoal suit, sweating profusely through his collar, his hands shaking as he raised them slowly into the air.
"Don't shoot!" the man gasped, his voice cracking with panic. "I’m not here for a hit. I’m a courier. I carry a message for Domenico Moretti from the Manhattan Commission."
Domenico gestured for Marcus to lower his stance, though he didn't relax his posture by a millimeter. He stepped up to the open door, looking down at the terrified courier with cold indifference.
"You have very poor driving skills for a man carrying messages," Domenico said smoothly. "Speak."
The courier fumbled inside his breast pocket with trembling fingers, pulling out a heavy, cream-colored envelope sealed not with wax, but with a simple metal stamp bearing the private crest of the New York families.
"The Commission... they saw what happened to the Boston chapter," the courier stammered, holding the envelope out like a shield. "They know about the federal indictments. They know you dismantled Salvatore Rossi’s entire operation in forty-eight hours without firing a single shot in the streets."
Domenico took the envelope slowly, his thumb rubbing the metal crest. "And?"
"And they want a treaty," the courier said, his eyes darting nervously toward the rolling sea cliffs. "New York wants to formalize a non-aggression pact. They recognize Hallowmere Manor as an independent sovereign territory. No incursions, no taxation of your shipping lanes, absolute neutrality. They just want your word that the federal prosecutors won't turn their attention southward next."
Corrie stood just behind Domenico’s shoulder, watching the scene unfold with a cool, detached clarity that would have seemed impossible a year ago. She recognized the language of power—it was the exact same language Everett Whitlock had used to control her, but now, the tables had been completely inverted. The giants of the underworld were coming to Hallowmere to beg for terms.
Domenico slid his thumb under the heavy paper, ripping the envelope open. He scanned the single typed page in less than ten seconds, his expression completely unreadable.
"Tell the Commission," Domenico said, folding the paper and sliding it into his pocket, "that Hallowmere does not sign treaties with men who hide behind couriers."
The courier’s face turned the color of ash. "Mr. Moretti—please, they need an answer—"
"Give them my answer," Domenico interrupted, his voice dropping an octave into a tone of quiet, absolute finality. "Tell them the slate is clean, and the borders are closed. If a single car from New York crosses the Rhode Island state line uninvited again, I won't send prosecutors. I'll come myself."
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He turned away from the car before the courier could draw another breath, gesturing for Marcus to clear the gates.
"Let's go back inside," Domenico said, taking Corrie's elbow as they walked back toward the manor. "The sea air is getting contaminated with desperate men."
