Chapter 8 - THE PRICE OF PEACE"Hold your fire, baker."
The voice was rough, choked with soot and exhaustion, but it was undeniably his.
The heavy steel door swung fully open. Matteo collapsed forward against the frame, barely catching himself on the jamb. His left shoulder was bound in a makeshift tourniquet of torn black linen, dark crimson soaking through the fabric. His face was gray, his hair matted with grime, but behind him in the corridor stood Marcus and six heavily armed security operatives, their weapons lowered.
The floor behind them was littered with spent shell casings and shattered concrete, but no enemy stood.
"Matteo!" Carmela cried, dropping her rosary and rushing forward.
Matteo waved her off with his good hand, his eyes scanning the dim interior of the bunker until they locked onto me. I was still standing in a shooting stance, both hands clamped around the grip of the automatic pistol, shaking like a leaf in an autumn gale.
"You can lower the weapon, Emily," he murmured, a faint, bloody smirk pulling at his mouth. "The kitchen survived."
The pistol slipped from my numb fingers, clattering onto the concrete floor. I crossed the distance between us before my brain could tell my legs to stop, throwing my arms around his uninjured shoulder, burying my face into the crook of his soot-stained neck.
He stiffened in shock for half a second before his right arm came around my waist, pulling me so hard against his chest that I could feel the ragged, violent beating of his heart against my ribs.
"You idiot," I sobbed into his collar. "You absolute arrogant idiot."
"I told you," he whispered into my hair, his voice raspy and cracked. "Debts are paid."
Three days later, the rain cleared over Long Island, leaving the air washed in crisp, clean sunlight.
The east wing of the estate was a charred skeleton of stone and timber, but the main house remained intact. In the private courtyard overlooking the sound, a temporary conference table had been erected under a white canvas awning.
At the table sat four men—the heads of the remaining five syndicates that controlled the northeastern seaboard.
At the head of the table sat Donna Elena, her black dress immaculate, her ebony cane resting across her lap like a scepter. Beside her stood Matteo, his left arm resting in a clean black silk sling, his posture straight as an iron girder.
Standing in the center of the courtyard, stripped of his weapons, his expensive suit torn and covered in mud, was Enzo Moretti. Two guards held him by the arms, forcing him onto his knees before the table.
"You brought mercenaries to a family estate, Enzo," Donna Elena spoke, her voice carrying across the cold lawn like an executioner’s drum. "You violated the seventy-year treaty signed in blood by your own father."
"Matteo broke the pact first!" Moretti spat, blood bubbling on his split lip. "He claimed the Rossi lineage! He took the Queens corridors!"
"The Rossi lineage belonged to this house before your grandfather had a single rowboat in the harbor," Matteo said, stepping forward. He reached into his pocket and laid an antique leather-bound journal onto the table—the missing ledger Antonio had taken in 1952. "This contains the original titles to every pier from Greenpoint to the Navy Yard. Signed by the city council. Verified by the state archives."
Matteo looked down at the beaten man with pure, chilling finality.
"You don't get a trial, Enzo. You don't get an exile. Your family will surrender all operational assets in New York by sunset, or my men will finish what your mercenaries started in my garden."
Moretti looked at the other bosses at the table, searching for an ally, a nod, a single gesture of mercy. Every man looked away. The council had spoken.
"Take him to the harbor," Matteo commanded quietly. "Put him on a cargo vessel bound for Genoa. If he ever touches American soil again, kill him on the pier."
As the guards dragged the cursing, thrashing man away, the other bosses rose, bowing their heads respectfully to Donna Elena, then to Matteo, before departing under armed escort.
The war was over.
I stood on the stone balustrade fifty yards away, watching the scene unfold with a strange, heavy quiet in my heart. The two-million-dollar escrow deposit had cleared into my personal account that morning. The deed to my grandfather’s bakery was sitting in a manila envelope on the hall table, signed over to Emily Rossi, free and clear.
May you like
My debt was settled. The three hours had stretched into five days, but the contract was complete.
I walked back inside the house, gathered my canvas jacket, slipped my comfortable worn boots onto my feet, and walked down the grand gravel driveway toward the iron gates without saying goodbye.
