Chapter 59 - The Arrival
The sirens rose in a discordant chorus, bouncing off the steel hulls of the cargo ships and the concrete walls of Slip Nine.
Leo stepped to the window, pulling back the blind with a trembling hand. "Coast Guard tactical units. Treasury Department marshals. There are ten vehicles at the main barrier. Miller let them through."
Giancarlo looked toward the private elevator behind the boardroom. "Gabriel," he said, his tone shifting into frantic desperation. "You know what happens if they take me into federal custody. The entire port goes under maritime receivership. The family loses everything. We take the tunnel beneath Pier 4. We have forty tons of fuel stored at the mothball slip. We can be in international waters before nightfall."
Gabriel looked at his uncle. The weapon in his hand felt heavy, an extension of thirty years of family violence that had brought nothing but ghosts and ash.
"You had Marco put David Vance in an iron drum," Gabriel said.
"Hector gave the order!" Giancarlo yelled, spit flying from his lips as the heavy boots of federal tactical teams thundered up the stairwells. "Hector signed the voucher! I was in Toronto!"
"You supplied the drum, Giancarlo," Sofia said, rising slowly from her chair, leaning heavily upon her cane. "David's blood is on your hands, on Hector’s hands, and on mine. But you will not run to Canada. You will face the court my father built."
Giancarlo’s face contorted. In a sudden, desperate lunge, he reached inside his ankle holster, his fingers clawing for a concealed snub-nosed revolver.
Gabriel didn't hesitate.
He didn't fire to kill. With the brutal, practiced efficiency of a man raised in harbor brawls, Gabriel swung the barrel of his automatic into Giancarlo’s wrist with a sickening crack. The small revolver clattered across the parquet floor, spinning beneath the heavy mahogany table.
Giancarlo screamed, clutching his shattered wrist to his chest, dropping to his knees on the Persian rug.
The double doors of the boardroom burst open.
Six federal tactical agents in dark green armor entered the room with assault rifles raised, followed by Special Agent Miller—not the gate guard, but the senior Treasury investigator who had monitored the Lake Shore Drive mansion for three years.
"Nobody move!" the lead agent barked, weapon sweeping the room. "Federal marshals! Drop the weapon!"
Gabriel slowly, deliberately, lowered his gun to the table, stepping back with his hands open, palms raised.
Agent Miller stepped into the center of the room, his eyes scanning the carnage: Giancarlo weeping in agony on the carpet, Leo holding the corporate deeds, Gabriel standing with calm resignation, and Sofia Rossi seated at the head of the table like an empress among ruins.
"Sofia Rossi?" Miller said, pulling out a federal badge and a sheaf of warrants. "You have the right to remain silent."
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A grim, faint smile touched Sofia’s lips.
"Agent Miller," she said in her raspy, commanding voice. "I have remained silent for forty-two years. Today, I am giving a deposition."
