Chapter 4 - The Fall of the RatVictor Vance and Dean Russo dropped flat onto the concrete floor in total, sweat-slicked panic as forty fully armed tactical operators in dark Kevlar armor swept into the warehouse from every entry point.
Stepping through the front smoke, wearing an immaculate black wool overcoat over a dark suit, his posture broad, tall, and sovereign, was Adrian Moretti.
Beside him, holding a high-powered tactical flashlight, walked his chief lieutenant, Marco.
Dean Russo thrashed his head back, his face turning an ugly, paper-white shade of green as he stared at the Don he believed was currently drinking poisoned cognac in Long Island.
"Adrian...?!" Dean stammered, his voice cracking into raspy, pathetic squeaks. "How... how are you here?! The estate cameras were dead!"
Adrian walked slowly across the wet concrete, stopping three feet from where Dean lay pinned beneath a tactical operator’s heavy boot.
Adrian didn't draw a weapon. He reached into his overcoat pocket, pulling out a sleek digital audio recorder, pressing the central play button.
Dean's own voice echoed through the cold warehouse with terrifying, crystal-clear precision:
"...the secondary shipment from the Brooklyn piers is arriving on Thursday night... once the cargo is unloaded, we kill the security feeds and lace the private reserve cognac..."
Dean’s jaw sagged open in total, speech-bound horror. "You... you bugged my phone?!"
"I didn't bug your phone, Dean," Adrian revealed flatly, his storm-gray eyes holding Dean with an absolute, freezing disdain that burned deeper than any bullet. "The quiet housekeeper you tried to bully in my kitchen... the woman you left a threat for under her door... she walked up to my room and told me every word you said."
Dean’s blood ran cold. He let out a dark, guttural curse, thrashing wildly against the concrete floorboards. "THAT LITTLE BUSBY BITCH?!"
THWACK!
Marco delivered a swift, heavy blow with the butt of his rifle to Dean’s shoulder, knocking the rat flat onto the wet asphalt.
"Keep her name out of your filthy mouth, Russo," Marco growled.
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Adrian looked down at Victor Vance and Dean Russo groveling in heavy steel restraints on the concrete floorboards, then looked up at the sea of federal agents securing the multi-million-dollar maritime shipment.
"Special Agent Miller," Adrian spoke cleanly to the lead FBI officer stepping out from the shadows. "The Vance Syndicate’s illegal distribution network is yours. Take them away."
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