Chapter 6 - The Execution of the Traitor
"Vittorio, listen to me!" Franco screamed, his back slamming against the armored sedan as his hands came up in a frantic, sniveling gesture of surrender. "The Moretti alliance was a trap! Alessandro was going to absorb our freight lanes and push us out within five years! I did it for the family! I did it to keep the Romano name sovereign!"
"You did it because you stole eighty million dollars from our pension funds, Franco," Isabella said, her voice cutting through the garage with the cold, unshakeable finality of an executioner. "You wanted Alessandro dead, you wanted me executed for his murder, and you wanted my father to die in a turf war so you could sit on his throne."
Matteo Romano moved before anyone could speak.
With a roar of pure, feral rage, the younger Romano lunged forward, grabbing his uncle by the throat with both hands, slamming Franco’s head violently against the reinforced windshield of the car.
The ballistic glass spiderwebbed with a loud, concussive crack.
"Matteo! Hold!" Vittorio commanded, his deep baritone booming through the concrete bay.
Matteo threw Franco onto the wet floor at his father's feet, stepping back with his chest heaving, his hand resting on the grip of his Kimber .45.
Franco scrambled on his hands and knees, weeping, blood dripping from his nose onto the concrete. "Vittorio... please. I am your brother! We grew up on Taylor Street! Don't let them kill me!"
Vittorio looked down at his brother with eyes that had turned into Arctic ice.
"You ceased to be my brother the second you turned my daughter's wedding dress into an assassination shroud, Franco," Vittorio whispered softly.
Vittorio turned to me. The old mob boss stood straight, extending his hand across the space between our families.
"Alessandro," Vittorio said, his voice heavy with ancient, unbending honor. "The Romano family owes you a debt of blood. Franco belongs to you. Do what justice requires."
I did not draw a weapon.
I looked down at the sniveling traitor on the floor, then turned to Ruth Kaplan and Caleb Stone.
"We don't spill blood on concrete when the law can build a deeper cage, Vittorio," I said, my baritone steady and clear. "Ruth has already submitted the decrypted wiretaps, the ballistic reports, and the video evidence of Henri Laurent’s homicide to the United States Attorney for the Northern District of Illinois."
Ruth stepped forward, flashing a certified federal arrest warrant stamped with the gold seal of the Department of Justice.
"Special agents and federal marshals are idling at the estate gates right now," Ruth announced. "Franco Romano will spend the remainder of his natural life in ADX Florence, in a subterranean concrete cell, without the possibility of parole."
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As Enzo’s security operatives hauled the weeping, broken traitor toward the service elevator to be transferred into federal custody, Vittorio looked at his daughter, then looked at me, a profound, unshakeable respect burning in his weathered eyes.
"You saved my daughter's life twice today, Moretti," Vittorio said softly. "Once from a bullet, and once from a war."
