Chapter 6 - The Ultimatum
The sleek black convoy of armored SUVs tore through the pouring rain, cutting through the deserted streets of Queens like a pack of wolves hunting in the dark.
Inside the lead vehicle, Alessandro sat in total silence, checking the magazine of his custom Sig Sauer P226. His phone buzzed violently against the leather seat.
An incoming video call from an unknown, encrypted number.
Alessandro swiped the screen and answered.
The face of Don Salvatore Santoro appeared on the small display. The aging, ruthless patriarch of the Santoro syndicate was sitting in a dimly lit office, swirling a glass of scotch, a smug, arrogant grin plastered across his wrinkled face.
"Ah, the great Alessandro Moretti," Santoro mocked, his raspy voice echoing through the car’s speakers. "Driving through the rain in the middle of the night. Tell me, does it break your cold heart knowing your little maid—excuse me, Victoria Rossi—is screaming in my basement?"
Alessandro’s face remained an unreadable mask of ice. "Where is she, Salvatore?"
"Oh, she’s alive. For now," Santoro chuckled. "She gave us quite a fight, you know. Bit one of my guards right through his glove. A regular spitfire. But she’s just one woman, Alessandro. And you’ve built your entire empire on secrets."
"State your price," Alessandro demanded, cutting straight to the point.
"Simple," Santoro’s smile vanished, replaced by a greedy, venomous glare. "You hand over the eastern shipping docks, all our territorial disputes in Manhattan, and the financial ledger your father left you. You sign over everything by sunrise tomorrow, or I send you Rosa’s head in a box. Tick-tock, Moretti."
The screen went black. The call disconnected.
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Marco glanced over from the driver’s seat, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Boss, we're two minutes away from the meatpacking plant. If we walk into a trap—"
"It's not a trap," Alessandro interrupted, cocking his pistol with a sharp, metallic click. "It's a slaughterhouse. And we brought the knives."
