Chapter 8 - The Wolf's Retaliation
"The evidence is invalid!" Marcone’s lawyer screamed over the roar of the reporters. "It’s an unauthorized wiretap! A federal court won't admit it!"
"The federal court doesn't have to admit it, counselor," Evelyn Cross said, stepping up the steps behind Damian, holding a fresh legal brief signed by the state governor himself. "The Governor has just declared an immediate state of emergency regarding municipal procurement fraud in the southern district. The county clerk's office has been placed under temporary state receivership. All mechanics' liens filed by Vanguard Holdings or its affiliates are hereby voided as fruits of a criminal conspiracy."
She looked at the auctioneer, who was currently trying to crawl beneath his portable wooden podium to avoid the television cameras. "The auction is canceled. The commercial deed remains with the legal owner of record: Miss Juny Alvarez."
Don Marcone let out a savage, guttural roar, his cigar dropping from his mouth as he reached beneath his white wool coat for his weapon.
Before his fingers could touch the leather holster, Damian Vale moved with the lethal, explosive speed of a striking predator. He lunged forward, his large hand slamming against Marcone’s chest, pinning the old man violently against the cold marble pillar behind him.
The sound of fifty weapons chambering rounds echoed through the plaza as both syndicates drew their guns, a white-hot standoff breaking out beneath the afternoon sun.
"Touch that gun, Camillo," Damian whispered, his face inches from the old Don's, his voice sounding like dry winter wind over dead grass. "And my men will turn this plaza into a graveyard before your body hits the steps. Your brother is already in handcuffs. Your accounts are seized. Your empire is a ghost."
He reached out, his fingers dipping into Marcone’s pocket and pulling out the silver matchbox the old man used for his cigars. Damian tossed it carelessly down the stone steps, where it clattered into the gutter.
"Get out of my city," Damian commanded, his grip releasing the man's coat with a sharp, dismissive shove. "If I see a single Marcone flag on the south side docks by sunset, I will freeze every freight lane between here and New York until your family is eating dirt to survive."
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Marcone choked, his face purple with a mixture of rage and terror. He looked at the cameras, then at his own soldiers, who were already lowering their weapons as they realized the political protection that had kept the family safe for thirty years had just evaporated into the thin afternoon air.
Without a single word, the old kingpin turned his back on the city hall and walked down the steps, his soldiers following him in a silent, defeated vanguard that looked like a funeral procession for the Marcone name.
