Chapter 6 - The Blood on East Cambridge
The rain was coming down in thick, blinding sheets when four black SUVs pulled up to the curb outside The Velvet Room—Marco Moretti’s exclusive cigar lounge on East Cambridge Avenue.
The street was empty. The neon sign above the mahogany entrance flickered lazily against the wet pavement.
Rafe stepped out of the lead vehicle. He wasn't wearing his formal suit jacket anymore; he wore a heavy black leather coat, his hands gloved, a suppressed SIG Sauer pistol held firmly at his side. Julian and ten heavily armed men stepped out behind him, moving in silent, disciplined formation.
Rafe didn't knock. He raised his heavy leather boot and kicked the double oak doors off their frame with a single, explosive strike.
The oak doors splintered inward, crashing onto the marble foyer. Inside, four guards in suits scrambled to draw their weapons, but Rafe’s men swept into the room with brutal, practiced speed. Suppressed gunshots echoed like quiet pops through the plush, velvet-lined lounge.
Within twenty seconds, all four guards were disarmed and bleeding on the floor.
Rafe walked calmly through the heavy velvet curtains into the main lounge area. Sitting in a leather armchair near a marble fireplace, holding a glass of scotch and a cigar, was Marco Moretti—a fat, graying man in his fifties whose face instantly twisted into pure terror.
"Rafe!" Moretti gasped, dropping his scotch glass onto the Persian rug, his hands scrambling toward a drawer in his side table.
Rafe crossed the room in three long strides, grabbing Moretti by his lapels and hurling him out of his chair. Moretti crashed heavily onto the coffee table, shattering glass and scattering crystal ash trays across the floor.
Rafe stepped onto Moretti’s chest, pressing his heavy boot straight down over the old man’s sternum until Moretti gasped for air, his face turning purple.
"Rafe... please!" Moretti wheezed, his eyes bulging with fear. "It was... it was a business dispute! We can talk... we can settle—"
"You sent a man to crush my sister’s skull, Marco," Rafe said softly, leaning down until his face was six inches from Moretti’s. His winter-blue eyes held no rage, no emotion—only the absolute, terrifying stillness of an executioner. "And you struck a woman who carries more honor in her broken finger than you have in your entire bloodline."
"I'll give you the North End docks!" Moretti begged, tears streaming down his fat cheeks. "Everything! I'll leave Boston tonight! Just don't—"
"You're not leaving Boston, Marco," Rafe murmured, raising his suppressed firearm and aiming it directly between Moretti’s eyes. "You're staying right here."
A single, quiet shot echoed through the empty lounge.
Rafe lowered the weapon, turning on his heel without looking back at the body. He wiped a microscopic speck of ash from his leather sleeve as Julian stepped into the lounge behind him.
"Clean the building," Rafe ordered flatly. "Seize all Moretti assets, warehouses, and account ledgers by morning. If any of his capos object, give them the same choice Marco had."
"Understood, Boss," Julian replied. "And the city council?"
"Tell them the Moretti family has retired," Rafe said, stepping out into the cold rain once again. "And tell them the Colazo family now owns every dock, every union, and every street from South Boston to the bay."
May you like
He stepped back into the Maybach, pulling his phone from his pocket. He brought up the digital file containing Mave Donovan’s medical documents.
"Call Dr. Vance," Rafe told his driver as the vehicle pulled away from the burning lounge. "Tell him to secure the top pediatric cardiac surgeon in the country. I want them at my estate by eight o'clock tomorrow morning."
