Chapter 6 - The Summit in the North End
The North End of Boston in the pre-dawn hours smelled of roasting espresso beans, sea salt, and old brick. The rain had cleared, leaving behind slick, mirror-like cobblestones that reflected the amber glow of vintage streetlamps.
Inside the private back room of a subterranean espresso bar tucked away on Hanover Street, three men sat around a heavy walnut table. They were aging capos from the old Boston syndicate families—men who wore heavy gold rings, expensive wool coats, and expressions of profound annoyance.
The door swung open with a slow, heavy creak.
Domenico Moretti walked in alone, his overcoat unbuttoned, his hands shoved casually into his trouser pockets. He didn't look like a man entering hostile territory; he looked like an owner inspecting a neglected property.
"Domenico," Salvatore Rossi, the eldest of the Boston bosses, rasped through a cloud of cigar smoke. "You've got a lot of nerve walking into the North End uninvited. Especially after your boy Marcus put one of my men in intensive care in Newport."
Domenico pulled out a chair directly opposite Rossi, sat down, and folded his hands on the table. He didn't smile.
"Salvatore, your man was trespassing in a private residence where a four-year-old child was sleeping," Domenico said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "In my world, that isn't an act of war. It’s an act of bad manners. And bad manners require correction."
"That girl's husband knew too much," another capo named Vincent snarled, slamming his fist onto the wood. "Whitlock was our asset before you bought Hallowmere. Those shipping files belong to us."
"Whitlock is currently residing in a federal holding facility in upstate New York, singing like a canary to a special federal prosecutor about every bribe, kickback, and fabricated accident your regime has run out of the Providence docks since 2018," Domenico replied smoothly, leaning forward.
The three bosses went completely still. The only sound in the room was the low hiss of an espresso machine through the wall.
"You wouldn't," Rossi whispered, his face draining of color. "Federal indictments? You're bringing the feds into the North End?"
"I'm not bringing the feds anywhere," Domenico said softly. "I'm simply handing over the trash that your organization left rotting on my estate. The investigation into David Hayes's murder is already reopened. The warrants for the subcontractors who rigged the crane bay are signed. You have forty-eight hours to dissolve your operations in Rhode Island, pull your men out of Newport, and hand over the remaining financial ledgers to my representatives."
"And if we don't?" Vincent growled, reaching instinctively toward his inner coat pocket.
Domenico didn't flinch. He simply raised two fingers, and the heavy iron-reinforced door behind the bosses slowly swung open.
Standing in the doorway, flanked by four armed enforcers, stood Corrie Hayes. She wore a sharp black trench coat, her hair pulled back in a clean ponytail, her expression carved from cold, unyielding marble. In her hands, she carried a thick leather portfolio bearing the seal of the Rhode Island District Attorney's office.
May you like
She looked directly at Salvatore Rossi—the man who had signed the order to destroy her family five years ago.
"You missed a file, Mr. Rossi," Corrie said, her voice ringing clear and steady across the small room. "And this time, I brought the copies."
