Chapter 5 - The Ledger of Blood
By sunrise the next morning, the news of Marco's "disappearance" had spread through the underworld like wildfire. The lie was simple: Marco had suffered a sudden heart attack and was buried privately by the family. No one dared ask further questions. In our business, when an underboss vanishes overnight, smart men keep their mouth shut and mind their own business.
I sat at my desk in the back room of the social club, staring at a thick leather ledger. For thirty years, I had maintained total control over this territory. Every debt, every payment, every favor was recorded in these pages.
Tony entered, setting a cup of dark espresso on my desk. "Arthur Moretti kept his word. The paperwork for the waterfront properties was delivered to Vasquez's lawyer an hour ago. The restaurant's debt is officially wiped clear."
I nodded slowly, but I didn't feel any sense of victory. "How is Vasquez doing?"
"He's preparing for the burial today," Tony said quietly. "He asked if you and Bruno would attend."
I looked down at Bruno, who was lying stretched out on the rug beside my desk. "We will be there."
"Boss," Tony hesitated, touching the edge of the desk. "There's something else. Moretti's crew isn't taking this sitting down. Word on the street is that his youngest son, Frankie Moretti, is gathering men in Brooklyn. He thinks you humiliated his father."
I let out a harsh laugh. Frankie Moretti was twenty-four years old, hot-headed, reckless, and raised on movie depictions of the mafia. He had never seen a real war. He thought power came from talking loud and carrying automatic weapons.
"Frankie is a boy playing a man's game," I said. "Tell our soldiers to double the guards around the Vasquez family. If Frankie wants to throw a tantrum, he can do it in Brooklyn. If he sets foot in Queens, put him down."
"Understood," Tony said.
As Tony turned to leave, the heavy wooden front door of the social club was suddenly kicked open with a terrifying crash.
Shouts erupted in the front room, followed instantly by the deafening roar of automatic gunfire. Plaster exploded from the walls, shattering glass framed pictures and sending wood splinters flying through the air.
Bruno was up in an instant, his chest expanding as he let out a roar of absolute rage.
"Boss! Down!" Tony screamed, drawing his gun and firing blindly through the doorway into the hallway.
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I reached into my desk drawer, pulled out my heavy snub-nosed .45 revolver, and dropped behind the solid mahogany desk just as a spray of bullets tore through the drywall above my head.
Frankie Moretti had not waited for permission. He had brought the war directly to my front door.
