Chapter 8 - THE TRAP CLOSES IN TRIBECA
Anthony took a step backward toward the heavy velvet curtains, his hand sliding subtly toward the inside pocket of his tailored suit jacket.
"Luca, think about this rationally," Anthony pleaded, sweat beginning to bead along his hairline. "The Commission was going to indict the entire family! The federal grand jury had subpoenas for the maritime shipping manifests! If Elena had testified about the dock transfers, everything your father built would have been seized! I saved this family! I kept her alive when the others wanted her in the concrete foundation of the Brooklyn pier!"
The confession hung in the air of the private dining room like a butcher's blade.
Mara gasped, stepping backward until her shoulder touched the solid wood of the sideboard. The memory of that rainy night three years ago surged forward with violent, blinding clarity: the black SUV ramming her sedan off the parkway, the headlights blinding her in the rearview mirror, and the sound of Anthony’s calm, cultured voice speaking over a speakerphone as she drifted into the darkness of her coma: Keep her alive, but erase the ledger. She doesn't exist anymore.
Sofia whimpered, sensing the suffocating malice radiating from the man at the end of the table.
Luca did not shout. He did not draw his weapon.
He simply raised his left hand, flicking two fingers toward the perimeter wall.
CLICK. CLACK.
The four armed security guards moved with terrifying, synchronized speed. Before Anthony could draw the small, snub-nosed automatic concealed in his jacket lining, two towering enforcers slammed him violently face-down against the ebony dining table.
CRACK!
Anthony’s forehead struck the polished wood, shattering a crystal tumbler and sending a cascade of gold-rimmed porcelain clattering across the floor. The guards wrenched his arms behind his back, securing his wrists in heavy, industrial-grade steel cuffs.
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"Take him down to the refrigeration bay in Red Hook," Luca instructed calmly, without a single glance toward the struggling accountant. "Find Beatrice. Bring her to the same room. I want every ledger, every bank routing number, and every name of the Commission members who signed off on this."
"Yes, Don Moretti," the lead guard replied, hauling Anthony to his feet and dragging him through the service exit, the accountant’s muffled pleas fading down the tiled corridor until the heavy fire door swung shut.
