Chapter 8 - The Voice Across the River
Dominic tapped the accept button on the satellite phone and tossed it onto the center conference table, switching the display to speaker mode. The small screen flickered, casting a pale, bluish light across the room.
A man’s voice filled the quiet bunker—smooth, cultured, and dripping with a cold, aristocratic arrogance that made my skin crawl.
“Magnificent defense, Dominic,” the voice purred. “I have to hand it to you. You’ve got the best private security money can buy. Too bad real estate in Westchester has such a terrible resale value after a tactical firefight.”
Dominic stepped toward the table, resting his knuckles on the edge of the wood, his voice dropping into a low, lethal rumble. “Save the breath, Victor. Your men are either dead or zip-tied in my conservatory, and the federal indictment unsealing your shipping cartel was filed with the Southern District of New York twenty minutes ago. You’re finished.”
A soft, dry laugh echoed through the speaker. “Finished? Oh, Dominic, you always were a romantic. You think a few white-collar racketeering charges can touch me? I’ve spent twenty years buying judges, laundering capital through offshore holding accounts, and burying federal prosecutors before they even reach discovery.”
Victor’s tone shifted, turning sharp and cold as ice.
“But let’s talk about the real prize here. Let’s talk about little Elena. Twenty-four years ago, my father made a mistake. He was supposed to wipe the slate clean, to make sure the Rossi family tree had no remaining branches that could contest our control of the port docks. Instead, your precious advisor Arthur Hayes smuggled her out under our noses and hid her in Ohio.”
I stepped forward, my hands gripping the edge of the table, my voice trembling with a sudden, overwhelming surge of fury.
“He didn't hide me from a war, you coward,” I snapped into the microphone. “He hid me from monsters like you.”
The line went silent for a fraction of a second. Then Victor chuckled again, darker this time.
“Ah. So the little waitress has found her voice. You have your mother’s spirit, Elena—god rest her soul. But spirit doesn't stop a sniper rifle aimed at the window of your Cleveland clinic, or a federal asset forfeiture order targeting every penny of your surrogate mother’s medical trust.”
Dominic’s hand slammed down onto the table so hard the heavy wood splintered slightly at the edge.
“If you touch a single hair on that woman’s head, Victor—if you even look in the direction of Cleveland—I won't wait for a federal judge to sign your death warrant,” Dominic snarled, his voice vibrating with absolute, terrifying menace. “I will personally hunt you down, drag you out of your Manhattan penthouse, and feed you to the fish in the Hudson River.”
Victor’s smug facade finally cracked, a hint of genuine unease bleeding through the speaker. “You think you’ve won, Rossi. But when the dust settles, my lawyers will tie your entire estate up in litigation for the next decade. You’ll be broke, ruined, and hunted.”
“Try me,” Dominic whispered.
May you like
He reached out and hit the red disconnect button, plunging the room into sudden, profound silence.
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