Chapter 10 - The New Dynasty
The single gunshot didn't echo for long; the damp salt air of the East River swallowed the sound almost instantly, leaving only the smell of cordite and wet concrete hanging under the halogen lights.
Carmine Rossi dropped to his knees, his hands clutching his chest where a dark stain was rapidly spreading across his expensive silk shirt, before pitching forward onto the cold floor. The remaining three men—Vincent Moretti, Sal DeLuca, and Donato Genovese—stood frozen, their breaths coming in ragged gasps, staring down at the body.
Roman didn't lower the gun. He stepped over the fallen capo, his boots leaving a dark smudge on the concrete, and stopped two feet from Donato Genovese. The older mafia boss didn't flinch, though a thin sheen of cold sweat glistened on his forehead under the warehouse lights.
"You're a cold bastard, Roman," Genovese whispered, his eyes fixed on the barrel of the Sig Sauer. "Just like your grandfather. You think killing Carmine and scaring these two clowns solves anything? The commission in Chicago won't let you hold the Brooklyn docks alone. There will be a war—a bloodbath that will wipe the D’Angelo name off the map by winter."
"Let them come," Roman said, his voice terrifyingly steady. "Tell the commission that the D’Angelos are no longer running a charity for ungrateful capos and treacherous mothers. We are a corporation now. And anyone who tries to break the lease gets the same treatment Carmine just received."
He lowered the gun slightly, though the barrel remained pointed at Genovese's midsection.
"You have twenty-four hours to pull every Genovese operative out of Brooklyn, Donato. If I see a single face from your crew within five miles of my ports tomorrow morning, I won't send a warning. I'll send Savage."
Genovese stared at him for a long, silent moment, recognizing the absolute, unyielding deadness in the younger man's eyes. Without a word, the veteran boss turned and walked slowly toward the side exit, followed closely by Vincent Moretti and Sal DeLuca, who practically tripped over each other in their haste to reach the door.
Savage stepped up beside Roman, watching the doors close behind them. "Should I follow them?"
"Let them run," Roman said, sliding the Sig Sauer back into its holster. "They'll carry the message back to New York better than any wiretap."
He turned and walked out of the warehouse, his boots crunching on the gravel as he climbed into the back of the waiting Navigator. The drive back to the estate took twenty minutes through the silent, rain-washed streets of Brooklyn.
When Roman finally stepped through the heavy front doors of the mansion, the house was dark except for the warm, yellow glow of the nightlight coming from the master suite upstairs. He climbed the grand staircase slowly, his muscles aching with a profound, bone-deep exhaustion he hadn't felt since the days of the succession wars.
He pushed the bedroom door open an inch.
Inside, Nora was sitting in the velvet chair by the window, her head resting against the high back, fast asleep with a worn cotton blanket draped over her shoulders. Across the king-sized bed, Sophie lay curled in the center of the mattress, her small face relaxed, one hand clutching the plastic doll with the missing arm, the other resting peacefully on the edge of the pillow.
Roman walked in without making a sound. He knelt beside the bed, gently pulling the quilt up over Sophie’s shoulders. The little girl stirred slightly, her eyelids fluttering open for a second. She looked up at him, her slate-grey eyes catching the warm light of the duck lamp.
"Daddy?" she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.
"I'm here, baby," Roman whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Go back to sleep. The monsters are all gone."
Sophie closed her eyes and drifted back into peace.
Roman stood up, walking over to the window where Nora sat. He gently lifted her into his arms, carrying her across the room to the second bed without waking her. As he laid her down and covered her with a blanket, she stirred, her hand reaching out blindly until her fingers brushed against his sleeve.
"Roman?" she whispered, her eyes barely open.
"I'm here," he said, sitting on the edge of the mattress and taking her hand in his rough, scarred palm. "Go to sleep, Nora. Everything is fixed."
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She didn't answer; her breathing deepened as she drifted back into a secure, unbroken sleep for the first time in three years.
Roman stood up and walked to the window, looking out across the rain-slicked lawns of the estate toward the iron gates where the security lights burned bright against the dark Manhattan skyline. The empire was his—cleansed of betrayal, secured in blood, and built to last. But as he looked down at his daughter's quiet form in the bed behind him, he knew that the true crown he had won wasn't made of gold or steel. It was the silence of a little girl sleeping without fear in the dark.
