Chapter 7 - Secrets of the Boston Harbor
“You recording me won't save you, Dante,” Arthur sneered, raising his Colt .45. “My men have sniper positions on the roof. The moment you move, your brains paint this concrete.”
“Your snipers cleared out twenty minutes ago, Arthur,” a cool voice crackled over the warehouse intercom system.
It was Luca Marino, Dante’s head of security, broadcasting from a command van parked three blocks away.
“We secured the roof access stairwells at 1:15 PM,” Luca continued. “Your boys are currently tied up in zip-ties, listening to sports radio in the back of our van.”
Arthur’s chest heaved. He raised the gun higher, his finger tightening on the trigger, aiming straight for Dante’s chest. “Then I’ll take you with me—!”
Before Arthur could pull the trigger, a deafening crack echoed through the warehouse.
A bullet pierced the concrete floor an inch from Arthur’s Italian leather shoe.
Arthur froze, looking up in horror.
High up on the rusted catwalk near the ceiling, half-hidden behind a stack of tarp-covered crates, a second Moretti enforcer lowered a sniper rifle with a smoking barrel.
“Drop the piece, Arthur,” Dante said, his voice like sliding glaciers. “Or the next one goes through your kneecap.”
Arthur stared at Dante’s steady, unblinking gaze. He realized the game was over. The empire he had spent a decade undermining had just slammed its jaws shut around him.
With a hollow clatter, the Colt .45 slipped from Arthur’s fingers and bounced across the concrete floor.
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Two of Dante’s enforcers emerged from the shadows, slamming Arthur against the metal crate and snapping steel cuffs around his wrists. As they dragged him past, Dante reached out and unclasped the luxury timepiece from Arthur’s left wrist—the blue-faced watch that had haunted a little girl’s nightmares for fifteen months.
Dante held the watch in his palm, closed his fist tightly around it, and tossed it into a floor drain.
