Chapter 5 - The Ashes of Falcone
By four o'clock in the morning, the rain had finally stopped, leaving the streets of Manhattan slick, dark, and quiet.
At the edge of the East River, on Pier 42, sat an abandoned shipping warehouse owned by Falcone Logistics. Inside, forty armed men belonging to Donato Falcone sat drinking cards, waiting for the confirmation call from Lucian Moretti that the strike on the Moretti estate was complete.
Donato Falcone—a fat, arrogant man in his fifties with gold rings on every finger—sat at a makeshift table in the center of the warehouse, counting a stack of bearer bonds.
“Where is Lucian?” Falcone muttered, checking his diamond watch. “He should have called by now. If he got the kid, we hold New York by the throat.”
Suddenly, the massive iron corrugated doors of the warehouse were ripped open with a horrific, screeching tear!
A thirty-ton armored snowplow truck smashed straight through the steel gates, crushing three Falcone guards beneath its massive tires!
Before the remaining men could raise their weapons, six flashbang grenades were hurled into the building!
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Blinding white light and thunderous sound waves tore through the warehouse, disorienting the guards, sending them stumbling to their knees, clutching their bleeding ears.
Through the thick smoke and flashing lights, Alessandro Moretti walked into the warehouse.
He was not wearing his suit jacket. He wore a black tactical vest over his bloody white shirt. In his hands, he held an automatic combat shotgun. Behind him marched thirty of the elite Moretti family soldiers, moving like a wall of dark iron.
“Moretti!” Falcone screamed, scrambling backward behind his desk, pulling his revolver.
Alessandro didn't speak. He didn't offer terms. He didn't demand explanations.
He pulled the trigger.
BOOM!
The combat shotgun tore through the wooden barricades. The Moretti soldiers opened fire in a synchronized, devastating execution. For three straight minutes, the warehouse echoed with the rhythmic roar of absolute destruction.
When the smoke finally cleared, forty Falcone mercenaries lay motionless across the concrete floor.
Donato Falcone was curled on his knees behind a steel shipping container, his arm shattered, weeping hysterically as he looked up at the shadow towering over him.
Alessandro stepped up to the shivering mob boss. The barrel of his shotgun was still smoking.
“Alessandro... please...” Falcone whimpered, blood dripping from his chin. “It was Lucian! Lucian came to me four years ago! He sold you out! I just took the opportunity!”
Alessandro racked another heavy 12-gauge shell into the chamber.
“You let my wife hide in the cold for four years, Donato,” Alessandro said, his gray eyes burning with cold, divine fury. “You made my daughter believe her father didn't exist.”
“I’ll give you everything!” Falcone sobbed, holding up his hands. “My territory! My docks! Tens of millions in Zurich! Just let me walk!”
Alessandro looked down at the man who had caused four years of agony.
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“My daughter’s name is Annie,” Alessandro said softly. “Remember it in hell.”
BOOM.
