Chapter 13 - The Boardroom Ambush
Pier 42 smelled of salt water, diesel exhaust, and rot.
Inside the cavernous warehouse, surrounded by shipping containers stacked three high like a fortress of rusted steel, a banquet table had been set up beneath dangling halogen bulbs.
Around the table sat seven men. Old men with heavy rings and withered faces, flanked by heavily armed guards holding submachine guns at the low-ready. At the head of the table sat Don Castiglione, eighty years old, sitting in an ornate leather wheelchair, breathing through an oxygen tube.
When the heavy corrugated metal doors rolled open, the room fell dead silent.
Julian walked in first, his posture regal, commanding the room without uttering a sound. But it wasn't Julian who drew every eye in the room.
It was Josie.
She walked half a pace behind his right shoulder, her velvet gown sweeping the concrete floor. Her dark hair was pinned up in an elegant, severe chignon, exposing the delicate curve of her throat and the diamond choker Julian had fastened around her neck twenty minutes ago. Her chin was held high, her eyes unfaltering.
"Julian," Castiglione wheezed, his ancient voice scraping like dry leaves. "You’re late. Sal’s blood isn't even dry on the street, and you keep your elders waiting."
"I was putting my affairs in order, Don Castiglione," Julian said, pulling out a chair at the opposite end of the table and waiting for Josie to sit before taking his own seat. He rested his forearms on the table, the platinum signet ring catching the harsh glare of the bulbs. "And making sure my wife was properly settled."
A younger man sitting to Castiglione’s left—Sal’s nephew, Marco—let out a derisive snort.
"Wife?" Marco sneered, leaning forward, his gold chains clinking. "She’s a gutter rat, Julian. We all know where you pulled her from. You paid off a few medical bills and bought a whore to sit in your uncle's chair."
Before Dante could raise his weapon, before Julian could even draw his breath, a sharp crack echoed through the cavernous space.
Josie had slammed her open palm flat onto the wooden table.
The silence that followed was deafening. The guards stiffened, fingers hovering over triggers.
Josie leaned forward, her hazel eyes blazing with a feral, terrifying calm that stunned even Julian.
"If you ever speak about my daughter or my marriage again," Josie said, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper that carried into every corner of the warehouse, "I will ensure my husband feeds you your own tongue. I am Josephine Moretti. You will show respect in this house, or you will not leave this table alive."
Marco blinked, the sneer freezing on his lips. He looked to Castiglione, but the old Don was staring at Josie, his rheumy eyes widening with slow, begrudging appreciation.
Julian’s lips curved into a faint, predatory smirk. He reached across the table, covering Josie’s hand with his own.
May you like
"You heard my wife, Marco," Julian murmured smoothly. "Now... let us discuss the inheritance."
***
