Chapter 7 - The Trial of Iron and Glass
The corporate offices of Romano Enterprises were silent under the morning light. The glass conference table had been cleared of its folders, replaced by a single, official document from the federal district court of New York.
Leo Moretti and his remaining enforcers had been denied bail, their charges upgraded to federal domestic terrorism, attempted kidnapping, and corporate racketeering. The evidence Dante’s network had gathered over the last forty-eight hours was so absolute that the Moretti defense attorneys had recommended a full guilty plea before the afternoon session could even begin.
Dante sat at his desk, looking out at the Statue of Liberty in the distance. He had a glass of scotch in his hand, but he hadn't touched it.
Vincent, the union boss, stood near the door, his hat in his hands, his posture completely bent in submission. “Dante… we didn't know Leo would go that far. We thought he was just managing the residential rents. If we had known he was targeting the girl—”
“You knew he was operating in my city, Vincent,” Dante said, not looking back from the window. “You took three percent of his transport logistics as a finder's fee last year. I saw the bank logs from the Chicago transit routing.”
Vincent fell to his knees, his hands shaking as he dropped his hat onto the carpet. “Dante, please. I’ve served your family for twenty years. My father worked for your father on the old piers. Don't do this to me.”
Dante turned his chair slowly, his green eyes completely empty of pity. “Your father was an honest man, Vincent. That’s the only reason you’re walking out of this room instead of being carried out. But your contract with the shipping union is terminated. You have forty-eight hours to pack your bags and leave the state of New York. If I see your face on the docks after Wednesday, Frank will handle the retirement paperwork.”
Vincent didn't argue. He picked up his hat, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs as he scrambled out of the office, leaving the Don of Manhattan alone in his glass tower.
Dante picked up the phone on his desk, dialing the private line to the west wing of Mercy General. “Dr. Adler. Is she ready for transport?”
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“Yes, Mr. Romano,” the chief of staff replied instantly. “Mrs. Harper’s lung clearance is at ninety-two percent. The fever has completely resolved, and she has been cleared for residential recovery. The medical transport van is loaded.”
“Good,” Dante said, standing up and buttoning his jacket. “Move her to the estate in Stamford. The city air is too dirty for my daughter’s lungs.”
