Chapter 7 - The Midnight Visitor
The rain was still hammering against the French doors of the study when the private security alarm began to chirp.
It wasn't the loud, wailing siren of the perimeter fence—that was reserved for major incursions. This was a low, pulsing, three-tone chime that originated from the subterranean gatehouse at the foot of the long, winding drive.
Dominic froze.
His hand dropped instantly to the Sig Sauer pistol tucked into his waistband. The anger, the grief, the chaos of the last few minutes vanished, replaced in a microsecond by the cold, razor-sharp focus of the apex predator he truly was.
He strode across the study, punched a button on the intercom console by the door, and brought up the outer security feeds on the wall-mounted monitor.
The screen flickered to life, showing the heavy iron gates half-open in the driving rain.
Standing outside in the downpour, drenched to the bone, was a man in an expensive Brioni suit that was ruined by mud and water. Two of Dominic’s guards stood behind him with their assault rifles raised, their knuckles white against the black metal.
It was Victor Moretti—the consigliere of the Gambino family, and one of the most dangerous, slippery vipers in the New York underworld.
Dominic hit the speaker switch. “Moretti. You’ve got thirty seconds to explain why you’re standing on my property before my men turn you into fertilizer.”
On the screen, Moretti wiped the rain out of his eyes, coughing into his hand, looking frantic and desperate.
“Russo!” Moretti shouted into the intercom camera, his voice cracking over the sound of the thunder. “I didn't come to start a war! I came because your house is compromised!”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “Compromised by whom?”
“By your own people!” Moretti yelled, waving his arms frantically toward the dark treeline. “Halloway—the captain you bought in the NYPD—he flipped! He’s selling the entire ledger of your waterfront operations to the federal grand jury in Manhattan! They have warrants, Dominic! They’re moving on your accounts, your warehouses, and your estate tonight!”
Dominic didn't flinch. For fifteen years, he had prepared for this moment. Empires built in the shadows always attracted the light eventually.
“Let him come,” Dominic said coldly. “My lawyers will chew him up before he clears the lobby of the federal courthouse.”
“Not Halloway!” Moretti screamed, his face twisting in genuine terror. “The feds aren't just coming for your business, Russo! They found the backup hard drives! The ones from the Queens warehouse where you kept the records of Isabella’s death!”
The name hit Dominic like a physical blow.
Isabella.
The records of the cartel hit. The names of the men who ordered it. The precise route of the cars, the encrypted radio frequencies, the names of the corrupt federal agents who looked the other way.
If the feds got those drives, they wouldn't just indict him for racketeering; they would uncover the entire bloody history of his vengeance—the clandestine executions, the unregistered safehouses, the systemic annihilation of the Mendoza cartel.
And worse—they would subpoena his daughters as witnesses.
“Where are the drives?” Dominic demanded, his voice dropping into a lethal, terrifying register that made the speaker hiss.
“In the safe behind the library painting!” Moretti yelled, looking wildly over his shoulder as a pair of black federal cruisers tore through the open gates behind him with their red-and-blue lights flashing through the rain. “And they’re already on the grounds, Dominic! They’re at the front door!”
The monitor went black as a federal flashbang detonated outside the gatehouse, wiping the feed into a blinding white glare.
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Dominic didn't hesitate.
He drew his pistol, checked the magazine with one practiced flick of his thumb, and turned toward the study door.
