Chapter 6 - The Cleansing of the Foundation
The Vale estate sat in total darkness when Dominic returned at midnight.
The grand wrought-iron gates hung wide open, their electronic locks overridden. The front lawn was littered with dark, unmarked vehicles belonging to the Moretti assault crew that Nathan had dispatched to finish the job.
Dominic stepped out of his armored SUV, flanked by Frank Varga and twelve heavily armed Vale syndicate veterans who had served with him since the old days.
They didn't speak. They didn't need orders.
They walked up the grand marble steps, pushing open the heavy oak double doors of the mansion.
Inside, the grand foyer was dead silent, illuminated only by the pale moonlight streaming through the high arched windows. Sitting bound and gagged on the marble floor near the sweeping staircase were eight Moretti mercenaries, their weapons stacked neatly on the reception table, guarded by Daniel and Marcus, who stood over them with assault rifles.
“Any casualties?” Dominic asked flatly, stepping past the captive men.
“None on our side, boss,” Daniel reported, offering a brief nod. “They breached the perimeter thinking the house was defended by local security guards. We ambushed them in the grand hall before they even reached the second floor.”
Dominic walked over to the chief Moretti operative—a scar-faced lieutenant named Paulie Vane. Dominic reached down, pulled the gag from the man’s mouth, and looked him straight in the eye.
“Where is Don Moretti?” Dominic asked.
Paulie spat blood onto the marble floor, glaring up at him. “Go to hell, Vale. The Don isn't in New Jersey anymore. He’s already on his yacht in Miami. You can't touch him.”
Dominic pulled his satellite phone from his pocket, touched the screen, and placed it on speaker mode.
A panicked, desperate voice echoed from the phone’s speaker over the quiet foyer:
‘Dominic! Please! Don't do it! I didn't know Nathan was operating on your personal property! I was told it was an abandoned business deal! I’ll sign over the Jersey docks! I’ll pay fifty million in restitution!’
It was the voice of Don Alberto Moretti.
Dominic looked down at Paulie Vane, whose eyes had turned wide with shock.
“Your Don just transferred his entire stake in the North New Jersey shipping lines to my trust five minutes ago, Paulie,” Dominic said calmly. “And he’s currently sitting in a Coast Guard detention facility off the coast of Key West, waiting to be processed for federal racketeering charges.”
Dominic turned to Frank Varga. “Turn these men over to the FBI task force waiting at the main gate. Let them spend the rest of their lives testifying against each other in court.”
“Understood, boss,” Frank said.
Dominic walked away from the foyer, his footsteps echoing through the empty halls of his house.
He walked past the library, past the grand dining room, down into the western corridor, and down the narrow spiral stairs until he stood once again before the open steel door of the wine cellar.
The dark vault was empty now. The broken brass lock lay on the stone floor, a useless piece of shattered metal. The smell of damp limestone and old oak remained, but the horror that had inhabited this room for three days was gone.
Dominic reached out, gripped the cold steel door handle, and pulled it shut with a heavy, definitive BANG.
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He locked the primary steel bolt, pulled the key from the lock, and tossed it into the deep stone well set into the cellar wall.
The rot beneath his home had been cut out.
