Chapter 8 - The Fall of the South
The Moretti compound in Alpine, New Jersey, was a sprawling six-acre estate sitting on the Palisades cliffs overlooking the Hudson River. Surrounded by ten-foot stone walls, security cameras, and armed patrols, it had been considered unassailable for over thirty years.
At 11:30 p.m., heavy fog rolled off the river, wrapping the estate in a thick gray blanket.
Inside the main villa’s study, Don Carmine Moretti sat behind a massive oak desk. He was sixty-eight years old, with heavy jowls, deep-set eyes, and silver hair brushed straight back. He was sipping aged scotch while listening to his top lieutenant report on the troop movements along Route 9.
"Our convoy is in position near the state line," the lieutenant said. "As soon as you give the word, we push into D’Angelo’s southern perimeter. His men are distracted cleaning up the mess in the East District."
Carmine grunted, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Roman is young. He thinks because he can execute a couple of greedy capos, he’s a king. He lost his wife, his mistress is in a federal cage, and his heirs are hooked to machines. The boy is unraveling. Tonight we take his harbor routes, and by next week, we take the city."
Before the lieutenant could respond, the lights in the study flickered once and died.
Carmine froze. "What happened to the generator?"
"I’ll check—" the lieutenant began, reaching for his radio.
Before he could lift the comms device, the heavy oak doors of the study burst open with a deafening bang.
Four flashbang grenades arched through the opening, bouncing across the Persian rug before exploding in a blinding, white flash and a concussive roar that shattered every glass window in the room.
Carmine was thrown backward out of his chair, his ears ringing violently, his vision reduced to a blur of white light and spinning shadows. He heard the rapid, rhythmic chatter of suppressed automatic gunfire—short, controlled three-round bursts—echoing through the hallways outside.
Shouts, falling bodies, and the sharp crack of breaking wood filled the air for less than forty seconds before sudden, terrifying silence returned.
Carmine crawled frantically across the floor, his hands slippery with spilled scotch, searching for the revolver he kept in his desk drawer.
A heavy leather boot stepped down on his wrist, pinning his arm to the hardwood floor with crushing force.
Carmine gasped in pain, looking up through tear-filled, unfocused eyes.
Standing over him was Roman D’Angelo. He wore a black tactical jacket, a dark combat vest, and no mask. In his right hand, he held a sleek black pistol equipped with a heavy suppressor.
Behind Roman stood eight men, all armed to the teeth, their weapons raised, securing every corner of the shattered room. Among them was Carmine’s chief of security, standing quietly with his weapon lowered.
"You..." Carmine choked out, his chest heaving. "Ettore... you traitorous bastard..."
"Ettore was paid by my wife two years ago," Roman said, his voice completely calm amidst the smoke and destruction. "Every camera angle, every guard rotation, every security bypass code for this compound was delivered to my server at four o'clock this afternoon."
Carmine swallowed hard, his face pale, his arm throbbing under Roman’s boot. "Roman... wait... we can talk! This is a business dispute! We can share the harbor routes! I’ll pay reparations for Marco’s interference!"
"There is no business," Roman said.
He leaned down slightly, pointing the barrel of his pistol directly between Carmine’s eyes.
"You supplied the pharmaceutical contact in Miami," Roman said softly. "Sabrina bought the chemical agents, but you provided the delivery system. You helped murder my wife."
Carmine’s eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated terror. "No! I didn't know what she was using it for! She said she just wanted something to make Naomi sick—something to push her out of the estate! I didn't know about the babies!"
"You knew," Roman said. "You just didn't care."
"Roman, please!" Carmine shrieked, his old voice cracking. "Think about the peace! If you kill me, the entire southern alliance will go to war!"
"There will be no war," Roman replied. "Because your lieutenants have already been paid with the money Anthony Russo transferred to my children’s trust this morning. You are entirely alone, Carmine."
THWIP.
The suppressed shot was no louder than a sharp cough.
Carmine’s body went limp. His eyes stared blankly at the shattered ceiling.
May you like
Roman stepped off the old man’s wrist. He pulled a crisp white handkerchief from his tactical pocket, wiped a speck of dust from his boot, and tossed the cloth onto Carmine’s chest.
"Burn the compound," Roman ordered flatly, turning toward the ruined doorway. "Leave nothing standing."
