Chapter 12 - Taken as Leverage: In the Clutches of the Moretti Syndicate
The discovery of Dominic’s betrayal forced Salvatore Moretti into a corner of desperate, suicidal madness. With his syndicate crumbling under federal indictments and Russo strikes, Moretti knew he had one final, desperate play.
Two days later, while Antonio was attending a mandatory federal deposition to clear his legitimate holdings, I was traveling under heavy guard to Columbia Presbyterian to oversee the final paperwork for our new pediatric clinic.
We never made it to the hospital.
At an intersection in Queens, an armored garbage truck slammed into our SUV, while a team of twelve heavily armed mercenaries using military-grade stun grenades overwhelmed my two bodyguards.
Before I could reach my concealed panic button, a cloth soaked in chloroform was clamped over my face. The world spun into blackness.
When I woke up, my head was throbbing with blinding pain.
I was tied to a heavy wooden chair in the center of a derelict, abandoned warehouse near the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Rain dripped from the rusted corrugated roof, and the smell of saltwater, motor oil, and rot filled the air.
Salvatore Moretti stood ten feet away, holding a video camera and a satellite phone, surrounded by six armed men in tactical gear.
“Ah, the little diner princess is awake,” Moretti sneered, walking over and slapping my cheek with the back of his hand.
Pain exploded across my face, but I kept my chin up and glared at him with pure hatred. “Antonio will hunt you to the ends of the earth for this, Moretti.”
“Antonio won't do anything,” Moretti laughed maniacally. “Because in ten minutes, I am going to livestream your execution to his phone unless he signs over all his port authorities, his territory, and surrenders himself to my men at the docks.”
Moretti dialed Antonio’s private number on speakerphone.
The call connected on the first ring.
“Moretti,” Antonio’s voice came through the speaker. It was not panicked; it was a terrifying, demonic calm that made the mercenaries in the room shift nervously.
“I have your little girl, Antonio,” Moretti laughed, pointing the camera at my face. “Look at her! Say hello to your lover, Sophie!”
“Antonio, don't give him anything!” I screamed at the phone. “It’s a trap!”
Moretti struck me again, but Antonio’s voice cut through the speaker like a guillotine.
“Salvatore,” Antonio spoke, his baritone sending a chill through the entire warehouse. “Listen to me very carefully. If you break a single fingernail on her hand, I will skin you alive in front of your sons. Look out the eastern window.”
May you like
Moretti’s smile vanished. “What?”
Suddenly, the red laser dots of twenty high-powered sniper rifles painted the walls, the mercenaries’ chests, and landed squarely on Salvatore Moretti’s forehead.
