Chapter 6 - Bloodlines and Betrayal: Unmasking the Judas in the Romano Syndicate
The basement armory of Blackwood Manor smelled of gun oil, ozone, and copper.
Maeve knelt beside Arthur on a steel supply crate, her hands firmly pressing a sterile pressure bandage against his freshly bleeding shoulder. The bullet had passed clean through the fleshy part of his deltoid, missing the bone by millimeters, but the blood loss was significant.
Arthur sat with his jaw clenched, not making a sound as Maeve worked. His single gray eye was fixed on a row of bank security monitors flickering on the opposite wall.
“You’re losing too much blood,” Maeve said, her voice tight with concern as she wrapped the medical gauze tightly under his arm. “You need a surgeon, Arthur. Not field dressings.”
“I’ve had worse in Palermo when I was nineteen,” Arthur rasped, his gaze never leaving the screens. “Matteo, bring him in.”
The heavy steel door of the armory swung open.
Matteo and two guards dragged a man into the room, tossing him roughly onto the concrete floor.
The man was dressed in an expensive three-piece suit, his hands bound behind his back with wire. It was Vincent Corelli—Arthur’s chief financial officer and a cousin of the Romano family who had managed the syndicate's legal investments for over twenty years.
Vincent was sobbing, his face covered in sweat and snot. “Arthur! Arthur, please! It wasn't me! Dominic threatened my family! He said he’d butcher my kids in their beds if I didn't give him the emergency satellite frequencies for the Blackwood security grid!”
Arthur slowly pushed himself up from the crate. Maeve tried to steady him, but he gently brushed her hand aside, stepping forward with the cold, deliberate grace of an executioner.
Goliath walked beside him, his lips curled in a silent, terrifying snarl.
Arthur stopped two feet from Vincent. He looked down at his cousin with an expression of profound, chilling pity.
“Twenty years, Vincent,” Arthur said, his voice soft, almost conversational. “When your father died penniless of cirrhosis, who paid off his gambling debts to the Genovese family? Who bought your home in Martha’s Vineyard? Who put your three daughters through Harvard Law?”
“Arthur, please—!” Vincent wailed, pressing his forehead against the bloody concrete. “Dominic has the entire city council! He has the Federal prosecutors! He promised me forty percent of the port revenues if I turned over the master ledgers!”
“You traded my life for forty percent of a port you didn't build,” Arthur said.
He turned to Matteo. “Where is Dominic right now?”
Vincent looked up frantically, eager to save his own skin. “He’s at the Grand Continental Hotel penthouse! He called a summit of all five families for tomorrow night at nine o'clock! He’s going to declare himself the head of the Commission and sign over the dock concessions to the foreign cartels!”
Arthur tilted his head. “The Grand Continental. The entire twenty-fourth floor.”
“Yes! Yes! He has sixty private security contractors guarding the elevators! You can't get near him, Arthur! It’s suicide!”
Arthur reached into his pocket and pulled out the heavy silver Zippo lighter Maeve had found in his suit jacket.
He flicked the wheel.
A sharp, steady yellow flame rose in the dim armory.
Arthur looked at the crossed daggers engraved on the silver casing.
“My father had a rule for traitors, Vincent,” Arthur murmured, his eyes reflecting the dancing flame. “A man who betrays his blood for gold doesn't get to keep either.”
He snapped the lighter shut with a loud clink.
“Matteo. Put him in the lower cellar. When this is over, the Commission will decide his fate according to the ancient laws.”
“No! Arthur! Please!” Vincent screamed as the guards dragged him kicking and screaming down the corridor.
The heavy iron door slammed shut, cutting off the cries.
Arthur stood in the center of the armory, his breath shallow. He turned toward Maeve.
The strain of his multiple injuries was beginning to show; his skin was gray, his posture stiff with agony. Yet the fire in his single slate-gray eye burned brighter than ever.
“Tomorrow night, it ends,” Arthur said, looking directly at Maeve.
Maeve walked over to him. She didn't flinch from the weapons on the walls or the blood on the floor. She reached up, gently wiping a drop of sweat from his forehead.
“You’re going to walk into a building with sixty armed men while you can barely lift your left arm?” she asked, her voice steady despite the fear in her heart.
“I am Arthur Romano,” he answered simply. “They think I am dead. They are celebrating their victory in silk suits while drinking my vintage wine. They have forgotten that the beast is at its most dangerous when it is wounded.”
He reached out and gently cupped her cheek with his calloused, scarred hand.
“When I take that room tomorrow night, Maeve... I want you at my side.”
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Maeve stared at him in shock. “Me? Arthur, I’m a waitress! I don't belong in ballrooms or mob summits!”
“You walked into an alley in the freezing rain to save a dying beast,” Arthur whispered, his thumb lightly grazing her cheekbone. “You stood between me and death without flinching. You have more royalty in your soul than any woman who ever wore diamonds in this city. Tomorrow night, the underworld will see the woman who saved the Don—and they will bow to you.”
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