Chapter 8 - THE KING ON THE ROOF
Victor Romano stepped out onto the rain-slicked gravel of the warehouse roof just as Victor Moreau reached the rusty iron fire escape leading down to the canal.
“Moreau!” Victor’s voice cut through the howling wind like an iron blade.
Moreau froze, slowly turning around.
He was a stocky, brutal man in his late fifties, his face scarred from decades of street violence, his eyes wild with the frantic, cornered panic of an animal that knew the trap had finally closed. He pulled a heavy nickel-plated revolver from his coat.
“Romano,” Moreau spat, rain dripping from his mustache. “You should have died in that diner backroom eight months ago.”
“I had better help than you did,” Victor said, walking slowly across the roof, his rifle held low at his side. He didn't raise the barrel. He didn't need to. Three red laser dots from hidden snipers in the surrounding cranes danced across Moreau’s chest.
Moreau looked down at the red dots on his coat, let out a bitter, raspy laugh, and dropped his revolver onto the wet gravel.
“You burned my entire network for a fucking waitress,” Moreau sneered, wiping rain from his eyes. “A nobody from South Boston who was scraping gin off the floor three days ago.”
Victor stopped five feet away. He reached out, grabbing Moreau by the collar of his leather coat, dragging the older man toward the ledge overlooking the dark, icy waters of the harbor sixty feet below.
“Her name is Dora Hayes,” Victor whispered, leaning close enough that Moreau could see the pale, cold fire in his gray eyes. “And she owns this city now.”
“You’re crazy,” Moreau gasped, clutching Victor’s wrists as his feet dangled over the abyss. “You’re throwing away forty years of family alliances for a girl!”
“I am building a new family,” Victor said.
May you like
He let go of the collar.
Moreau screamed as he hit the dark water below with a heavy, final splash that was swallowed instantly by the roaring tide.
