Chapter 7 - The Gathering Storm
The rescue of Sarah Vance sent shockwaves through the New York underworld.
By noon the following day, the heads of the Russian Bratva in Manhattan called for an emergency council with the Moretti family, demanding reparations for the death of Victor Vance and the destruction of their Red Hook operations.
The meeting took place in a private, soundproof dining room at an upscale steakhouse near Wall Street.
Dmitri Volkov, the supreme commander of the Bratva on the East Coast—a ruthless seventy-year-old mobster with iron-grey hair and eyes like chipped glass—sat across from me at the mahogany table.
Four armed Russian enforcers stood behind him, while Marco and Frankie stood behind my chair.
"You killed my best captain, Calder," Volkov rasped, slicing into a bloody piece of filet mignon. "And you seized four million dollars worth of our shipping container inventory at the docks. This is a declaration of war."
I leaned back in my leather chair, slowly lighting a Cuban cigar, blowing a long plume of blue smoke across the table.
"Your captain kidnapped an innocent woman and hunted a six-year-old child through my territory, Volkov," I replied coldly. "He violated the foundational pact established by the Commission fifty years ago."
"She was a customs clerk blocking our business!" Volkov snapped, slamming his fist onto the table, making the wine glasses rattle.
"She is now under the personal protection of the Moretti family," I said, leaning forward, resting my forearms on the table, my dark eyes locking onto Volkov with absolute, terrifying authority. "And if another one of your men sets foot in Brooklyn, I won't just kill your captains, Volkov. I will wipe your entire family off the eastern seaboard."
Volkov stared at me, his jaw working silently as he calculated the sheer military force, political connections, and wealth backing my threat.
He knew he couldn't win an open war against the Morettis on our home turf.
Slowly, Volkov lowered his knife, leaning back into his chair. "The woman stays out of customs. She leaves New York."
May you like
"She stays wherever she pleases," I corrected smoothly. "And your syndicate will pay her two million dollars in compensation for her suffering. You have until six o'clock tonight to wire the funds into a private trust account for her daughter."
Volkov’s face turned deep purple with rage, but he gave a single, rigid nod. "Done."
