Chapter 5 - The Reckoning on Runway Four
The fog rolled off Massachusetts Bay like a wall of grey wool, swallowing the tarmac of the decommissioned Old North naval strip.
A sleek, matte-black Gulfstream G650 sat on the runway, its twin Rolls-Royce engines whining through their warm-up cycle, throwing twin cones of heat into the freezing sea mist.
Alberto Rossi stood at the foot of the mobile boarding stairs, his cashmere overcoat collar turned up against the damp chill, a leather duffel bag packed with two million dollars in bearer bonds slung over his shoulder.
"Where is Silvio?" Rossi barked at his bodyguard, a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound enforcer named Varga. "He should have called from the gala an hour ago!"
"The cell towers are jammed in the downtown district, Don Alberto," Varga said, nervously scanning the dark perimeter fence. "And Forty-Second Street just stopped responding three minutes ago. Marco’s phone went straight to dead static."
Rossi cursed, spitting onto the tarmac. "The old fool blew it. Dominic smelled the trap. Get the luggage loaded! We take off now, clearance or no clearance!"
"Leaving without saying goodbye, Alberto?"
The voice didn't come from the perimeter. It came from directly beneath the fuselage of the aircraft.
Rossi jumped, his hand diving inside his coat.
*Thwip.*
A single silenced round took Varga through the center of his forehead. The giant collapsed like an empty sack of grain, his heavy body striking the asphalt with a dull, wet thud.
From the shadow of the aircraft’s landing gear, Dominic Falcone stepped into the halogen glare of the tarmac lights.
He held a customized tactical rifle equipped with a carbon-fiber suppressor, held casually at low-ready. He walked without haste, his heavy boots crunching rhythmically on the gravelly asphalt, cutting an imposing, terrifying figure against the white wall of fog.
"Dominic," Rossi stammered, his hand freezing inside his coat, his face turning the color of skim milk. "Wait. Wait! We can talk about this! It was Silvio’s play! Silvio approached me! He said you were turning the families into corporate weaklings!"
Behind Dominic, six black SUVs emerged from the mist like sharks cutting through dark water, their headlights cutting through the fog, forming a blinding semi-circle around the Gulfstream. Dozens of armed Falcone soldiers stepped out, their assault rifles raised, completely cutting off every avenue of escape.
Dominic didn't raise his rifle. He stopped five paces from Rossi, his grey eyes reflecting the cold glare of the halogen floodlights.
"You broke my wife’s ribs, Alberto."
Rossi flinched as if struck. "It was Marco! Marco went rogue! I told them to just secure the leverage—"
"You sent three men into my home," Dominic continued, his voice so quiet, so perfectly modulated, that it was transmitted with crystal clarity through the tactical earpiece resting against Clara’s ear twenty miles away in the estate bedroom. "You had them kick her while she was on the floor. You made her wrap herself in medical tape so she could stand next to me while you prepared to slaughter us both."
"Dominic, please!" Rossi fell to his knees, dropping the leather duffel bag, his hands raised in surrender. "Take the territory! Take the northern docks! Take the rail lines! I’ll sign over every shell company, every offshore account! I'll leave the country! You will never hear the name Rossi again!"
Dominic reached up to his tactical vest, tapped the comms unit on his shoulder, and spoke clearly into the microphone.
"Clara."
In the master bedroom of the Falcone mansion, Clara sat on the edge of the bed, her hand pressed against the small earpiece, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.
"I'm here, Dominic," she whispered into the transmitter.
"Does he live or die?" Dominic asked, his eyes locked on Rossi’s trembling form. "Your call, my love. You’re the one who carried the weight."
Rossi’s eyes bulged with horror. He looked up at Dominic, realizing with absolute, gut-wrenching terror that the supreme don of the East Coast underworld was handing the power of life and death over to a woman he had dismissed as a society ornament.
"Mrs. Falcone!" Rossi screamed toward Dominic’s shoulder mic, weeping openly. "Clara! Please! For God’s sake, have mercy! We were friends of your father!"
Across the airwaves, Clara’s voice came through the speaker. It was quiet. Steady. Free of hesitation.
"He told Marco to make sure I couldn't dance," Clara whispered through the static. "Show him how the Falcones finish a waltz."
Dominic’s finger tightened on the trigger.
"With pleasure, little bird," Dominic said.
*Thwip. Thwip.*
The two rounds were swallowed instantly by the whine of the Gulfstream’s idling jet engines.
Rossi slumped forward onto the tarmac, his blood pooling out to mingle with the cold sea mist. Dominic didn't spare the body a second glance. He lowered the rifle, turned his back on the private jet, and looked toward the perimeter.
"Matteo," Dominic said, stepping toward the lead SUV.
"Boss?"
"Torch the plane. Clean the runway. And call the city editor of the *Globe*."
"What do you want to tell him?"
Dominic opened the door of the SUV, sliding into the leather interior.
May you like
"Tell him the Falcone family is officially retiring from public charity," Dominic said softly, his thoughts already racing back to the woman waiting for him in the quiet bedroom in the hills. "From now on, we keep our business strictly in-house."
***
