Chapter 7 - The Mandate of New York
The war room on the first floor of the Maine estate was filled with the blue light of five separate monitors displaying live feeds from the Chicago docks, the New York transit hubs, and the security grid of the property itself.
Dominic stood at the head of the long oak table, his hands flat on the wood as he looked at the digital map of the Atlantic seaboard. Leo was typing rapidly, his earpiece buzzing with reports from their intelligence assets in Manhattan.
"Don Moretti has called an emergency meeting of the Commission for Saturday night," Leo announced, his voice tight. "He’s claiming that you violated the neutrality treaty by executing his scouts in Boston. He’s already secured the backing of the Lucchese and Genovese families by promising them a thirty percent cut of your Midwest shipping lines if they help him remove you from the chair."
"Let them vote," Dominic said, his voice entirely devoid of fear, turning cold like river ice. "The Commission hasn't seen a real war since ninety-eight. They think because they wear Brioni suits and sit in private clubs in Long Island, they understand how capital moves. They forgot that I own the actual concrete under their trucks."
"Boss, they aren't just voting," Leo warned, hitting a key to display a satellite image of a private marina in Rhode Island. "Three high-speed offshore transport vessels left the Moretti docks two hours ago. They’re tracking north along the coast. They have twenty-four heavy enforcers on board, led by Leo Moretti himself. They’re bypassing the highway checkpoints entirely by coming in from the ocean."
Dominic looked out the window at the Atlantic, which was now a dark, violent slate-gray under the winter sun. The waves were rising, indicating a secondary storm system moving in from the north.
"They're coming here," Dominic muttered.
"They have the coordinates for this bluff, Boss," Leo confirmed. "Dominic Moro—the underboss we removed in Chicago last month—he had a duplicate set of the Maine foundation blueprints. He sold them to New York before he fled to Canada."
I stood in the doorway of the war room, my hand resting on the frame, my heart tightening as I listened to the logistics of our survival. Dominic turned his head and saw me. He didn't scold me for leaving the bedroom; he simply walked over, took my hand, and pulled me into the warmth of his side.
"You're safe here, Megan," he said, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that demanded my trust. "The glass on this first floor is three-inch ballistic polycarbonate. The walls are solid stone. We have ten men on the perimeter who have been with my family since I was a boy."
"Dominic," I whispered, my fingers tightening around his knuckles. "If they have the blueprints... they know where the utility entries are. They know how to bypass the gates."
"They know how the old Russo family built things," Dominic corrected, a sharp, dangerous smile touching his lips. "They don't know how I re-wired them. Leo, activate the shoreline defense protocol. Turn off the visible perimeter lights. Let them think the storm knocked out our grid."
He looked back down at me, his hand moving to gently cradle my chin. "I need you to go down to the cellar level with Dr. Bianchi, Megan. There's a secure vault behind the wine racks with its own ventilation system and a direct satellite link to the federal marshal’s office in Boston. If a single stone on this house chips, the marshals will have three Blackhawk helicopters on this bluff in twelve minutes."
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"And you?" I asked, my voice cracking.
"I'm going down to the beach," Dominic said, his fingers releasing my chin as he reached into his drawer for a secondary magazine for his Kimber .45. "I want to welcome my future brother-in-law to Maine."
