Chapter 8 - The Blue Heron Lounge
The Blue Heron was an exclusive, members-only cigar lounge tucked away behind an unmarked mahogany door in downtown Manhattan. Its interior was bathed in amber mood lighting, draped in heavy velvet curtains, and filled with the hazy, expensive smoke of imported Cuban cigars.
At a corner booth upholstered in deep green leather sat Salvatore Rossi. Rossi was a slick, silver-tongued enforcer for the Boston syndicate, wearing a sharp charcoal suit and puffing lazily on a Montecristo. Across from him sat two armed bodyguards, their hands resting casually inside their suit jackets near their concealed hardware.
Rossi glanced at his gold wristwatch for the fifth time in ten minutes. "Isabella is late," he muttered, taking a sip of aged single-malt scotch. "She should have checked in by now. If she botched the cleanup—"
Before Rossi could finish his sentence, the heavy mahogany entrance doors of the lounge swung open with a resounding thud.
The low hum of conversation across the room instantly died.
Through the doorway walked Marcus Falcone. He wasn't wearing an overcoat, just his immaculate charcoal three-piece suit, his silver-threaded tie pulled tight, and his face carved from absolute ice. Flanking him on either side were Thomas Moretti and four massive capos, their hands resting firmly on their holsters, radiating an aura of unstoppable, predatory violence.
The patrons sitting near the bar scrambled backward, knocking over their drinks as they rushed toward the side exits, desperate to get out of the crossfire.
Rossi’s face drained of color. He stood up abruptly from the corner booth, knocking his scotch glass onto the floor where it shattered into a thousand amber shards.
"Falcone..." Rossi stammered, his hand twitching toward his jacket. "You... you can't just walk in here—"
Before Rossi’s fingers could brush his gun, Thomas Moretti moved with blinding speed. Moretti vaulted across a low leather table, slammed his forearm directly into Rossi’s throat, and drove him violently down onto the tabletop, pinning him beneath the crushing weight of his forearm.
Rossi’s two bodyguards instantly drew their pistols, but before they could level the barrels, four barrels from the Falcone capos were pressed firmly against their foreheads.
"Drop the hardware or join the angels," one capo growled.
The pistols clattered softly onto the plush carpet.
Marcus walked slowly across the room, his leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the floor. He stopped in front of the corner booth, looking down at Salvatore Rossi, who was gasping for air beneath Moretti’s arm.
"Salvatore," Marcus said smoothly, his voice dangerously quiet. "You’ve been trying to reach Isabella Cross. I’m afraid she’s currently unavailable. She’s checking out the plumbing in my lower east vault."
Rossi’s eyes bulged with terror. "I... I don't know what you're talking about... we had a legitimate business arrangement—"
Marcus reached out, grabbing Rossi by the lapels of his expensive charcoal suit and hauling him upright across the table, bringing their faces inches apart.
"You tried to kill my son," Marcus whispered, his voice vibrating with a suppressed fury that made the glass decanters on the nearby bar rattle. "You and the Morello family thought you could use a proxy to clean out my bloodline."
"It was business, Marcus! Just business!" Rossi choked out, blood trickling from his lip.
"Business," Marcus repeated, his eyes burning with dark fire. "Here is your final business transaction, Salvatore. You are going to call Boston right now on your encrypted satellite phone. You are going to tell the Morello patriarch that his little proxy operation in New York has failed permanently. And then, you are going to tell him that Marcus Falcone is coming north to collect a very heavy debt."
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Marcus shoved Rossi back down onto the table with enough force to splinter the mahogany wood. He turned around, adjusting his cuffs, and gestured to his men.
"Bring him along," Marcus ordered coldly as he strode toward the exit. "We have a message to deliver."
