Chapter 6 - The First Strike
The three girls moved with a ghostly, heartbreaking caution.
Olivia, holding Nora’s small hand, paused on the third step from the bottom, her wide, dark eyes fixed entirely on Victor, who was still slumped on the floor against the bookshelf, gasping for breath.
Sophie didn't look at Victor. She looked at me.
She saw the blood on the cuff of my white shirt—Paulie’s blood. She saw the heavy Glock resting on the desk, its steel barrel catching the amber glow of the fireplace. Her tiny chest rose and fell in rapid, terrified cycles.
"Daddy?" she whispered.
That single word shattered whatever was left of my cold, mafia composure. The king of New York’s waterfront dropped to his knees on the Persian rug, heedless of the wood splinters and the glass.
"I’m here, baby," I said, opening my arms. My voice broke completely. "I’m right here."
Olivia let go of Nora. For one agonizing second, she hesitated, her six-year-old mind weighing the terrifying reality of the room against the man kneeling before her. Then she ran.
All three of them ran.
They slammed into my chest with a force that knocked the air from my lungs. Nora buried her face into the crook of my neck, her small, hot tears soaking into my collar. Sophie threw her arms around my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair, while Olivia pressed herself tightly against my side, trembling violently.
"He was the bad man," Olivia whispered into my ear, her voice trembling with the weight of fourteen months of silence. "He told Mommy to be quiet. He had the loud gun."
"I know, my brave girl," I wept into her dark curls, holding all three of them so tightly my muscles burned. "I know. Daddy knows now. It’s over. He will never, ever hurt you again."
Grace stood three feet away, her eyes glistening with tears she refused to let fall. She watched the four of us with an expression of such deep, aching reverence that I knew, right then, she would never be just a housekeeper to this family. She had pulled my children out of the grave.
The front door banged open again.
Marco walked back in, carrying a sleek black aluminum briefcase. His jaw was set like granite.
"Got the machine," Marco said, eyeing Victor with utter disgust. "Along with two burner phones and a passport with a fresh visa for Zurich. The bastard was planning to fly out of JFK at four in the morning."
Marco set the laptop on the central desk and popped the clasps. The screen flared to life, casting a pale, bluish glow across the dark walnut walls.
"Password," I commanded, still keeping one arm firmly wrapped around my daughters.
Victor, shivering on the floor, looked up with hollow, defeated eyes. "Zero-five... one-two... eight-eight."
Isabelle’s birthday. May 12th, 1988.
Marco typed the digits. The drive unlocked with a soft chime.
Dozens of folders populated the screen. Banking transactions. Audio surveillance logs labeled with dates and room numbers. Wire transfers moving through shell companies in Panama, Cyprus, and Ireland.
"Holy Mother of God," Marco breathed, leaning over the keyboard. "Look at this, Dominic. It’s not just Brennan. Victor has been feeding our container manifests to an offshore syndicate based out of Montreal for eighteen months. Over forty million dollars in diverted pharmaceuticals and luxury cars."
"And the federal warrant?" I asked.
Marco clicked through a subfolder marked *DOJ Agreement*.
"It’s here," Marco said, his voice dropping into disbelief. "It’s a proffer agreement with the Southern District of New York. Victor was trading our logistics network in exchange for full immunity and a deferred prosecution agreement. But there’s a clause here..."
Marco paused, glancing nervously at the girls.
"Read it," I ordered.
"The agreement was only valid if you were incapacitated or indicted before the end of the fiscal quarter," Marco said, his jaw tightening. "If Dominic Romano was dead or in custody, Victor Vane would be recognized by the courts as the primary corporate receiver for Romano Shipping Logistics."
"He killed Isabelle because she found out," Grace said quietly from the corner. "And he was going to kill Dominic tonight to collect the company before the feds realized he was the one pulling the strings."
Victor let out a pathetic, broken sob from the floor. "You don't understand the pressure, Dominic! You built an empire, but you kept all the leverage! I was the one doing the math! I was the one moving the money through the regulatory loopholes! What was I supposed to get? A Christmas bonus and a pat on the back?"
I slowly stood up, keeping Olivia, Sophie, and Nora behind me. Grace immediately moved forward, placing herself between the children and the monster who had destroyed their mother.
"You had everything," I said, looking down at my cousin with cold pity. "You were my brother. My family. Isabelle set a place for you at our table every holiday. You would have had half of everything when I stepped down next year."
Victor blinked, stunned. "What?"
"I was planning to retire, Victor," I said, my voice echoing off the tall shelves. "Isabelle wanted me out. She wanted us to move to the house in Tuscany. We had already drawn up the corporate succession papers. You were going to be the Chief Executive Officer of Romano Holdings. Legitimately. Cleanly. With eighty million dollars in clean stock."
Victor’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. The sheer, monstrous irony of his greed seemed to cave his chest in. He had murdered the woman who treated him like family, orchestrated a bloodbath, and sold his soul to rival cartels—all to steal something that was already going to be handed to him on a silver platter.
"No..." Victor whimpered, clutching his head in his hands. "No, no, that’s not... you're lying..."
"Look at the master safe in my office tomorrow," I said coldly. "The papers are signed and notarized, dated two months before Isabelle died."
A sudden, sharp metallic vibration buzzed across the desk.
One of Victor’s burner phones was lighting up. The caller ID displayed a single name: *BRENNAN.*
Marco reached for it, but I held up a hand.
I picked up the phone and pressed the speaker button.
A harsh, raspy voice with a thick Dublin accent echoed into the room.
"Victor? Is it done? Paulie’s tracker hasn't moved from the driveway in twenty minutes. Our boys are two miles out on the Long Island Expressway. If Romano is down, we’re moving sixty men into the Newark docks in forty minutes to secure the cranes before the feds show up. Talk to me."
Victor looked up at me, terror flooding his eyes. He knew what was at stake.
I didn't give him the chance to speak.
"Marcus Brennan," I said into the microphone.
The line went dead silent on the other end. For three seconds, only the sound of heavy road noise came through the speaker.
"Romano?" Brennan rasped, his voice tightening with sudden dread.
"Tell your sixty men to turn around and head back to Hell's Kitchen," I said with absolute, lethal certainty. "Because if a single one of your trucks crosses the Hudson tonight, I will not call the police. I will not call the Commission. I will come to your home in Westchester, Marcus. And I will burn everything you have ever loved while you watch."
"Dominic, wait, let’s talk—" Brennan started, panic cracking his voice.
I crushed the phone beneath the heel of my dress shoe, grinding the plastic and circuit boards into powder on the hardwood floor.
I looked at Marco.
"Take Victor to the cellar," I said. "Tie him to the support beam. Don't touch him. Don't mark him."
Marco looked surprised. "You're keeping him alive?"
"Death is an escape," I said, looking down at the shivering wreck of my cousin. "Victor is going to spend the rest of his life in a maximum-security federal penitentiary in Colorado. He is going to give the United States Attorney every ledger, every bank account, and every dirty politician Brennan ever bought. He is going to dismantle Brennan’s organization piece by piece to save his own miserable neck."
"And the feds?" Marco asked. "The warrant for your arrest drops at midnight."
I walked over to the desk, pulled out the teal leather journal Isabelle had left behind, and placed it beside Victor’s laptop.
"Call Assistant United States Attorney Miller," I said. "The man who signed the warrant. Tell him Dominic Romano has sixteen gigabytes of unredacted evidence detailing thirty years of Irish syndicate smuggling, two corrupt federal judges, and a confession to the murder of Isabelle Romano."
I looked at Grace.
May you like
"Tell Miller that if he wants the biggest organized crime bust in New York history, he has one hour to come to my estate with a squad of federal marshals. And he’d better bring an apology."
***
