Chapter 7 - Reckoning in Manhattan
The silence in the boardroom was so thick it could be cut with a knife. The capos stared in horror between Lorenzo—who looked every bit the ruthless syndicate boss they had feared for over a decade—and Marco, whose face had gone from smug triumph to absolute terror.
"You're... you're supposed to be brain-dead," Marco stammered, backing away from the head of the table as Lorenzo approached. "The doctors at Mount Sinai said—"
"You bought the wrong doctors, Marco," Lorenzo interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy register. He reached into his coat pocket and tossed a thick manila folder onto the center of the table. It slid across the polished wood and stopped right in front of Sal. "And you drafted succession papers fifty days too early. Financial records, encrypted emails between you and the truck driver who ran my car off the Long Island Expressway. Did you really think I wouldn't leave an audit trail?"
Sal opened the folder, his eyes darting across the pages. The color drained from his face. He slammed the folder shut and immediately pushed his chair back from the table, raising his hands. "I had nothing to do with the hit, Lorenzo. Nothing at all. Marco acted alone."
"Traitorous rats," Lorenzo muttered, his eyes locking onto Marco.
Panic seized Marco. In a desperate, suicidal move, he reached inside his jacket, drawing a hidden silver pistol, and lunged toward Lorenzo. "If I go down, you're coming with me!"
Before Marco could even level the barrel, a deafening crack echoed through the boardroom.
It wasn't Lorenzo who fired. From the doorway, Isabella’s personal security detail—stationed discreetly outside—sent a bullet straight through Marco’s wrist. The pistol spun across the marble floor with a clatter, and Marco screamed, clutching his mangled hand as blood poured between his fingers.
Two heavy-set guards stepped forward instantly, slamming Marco face-first onto the mahogany table and clicking steel handcuffs around his wrists.
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"Clean this trash out of my sight," Lorenzo ordered coldly.
As guards dragged the screaming, bleeding underboss out of the penthouse, Lorenzo exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. The tension in the room evaporated, replaced by absolute, shivering submission from every capo present. They stood up in unison, bowing their heads toward the man who had risen from the dead.
