Chapter 17 - The Mole in the Marble Hall
By noon that same day,
the sky above Alpine had turned into a dark,
turbulent sea of storm clouds.
Inside the Falcone mansion,
a tense,
uncomfortable atmosphere settled over the staff and security detail.
Gabriel had summoned the surviving three Capos of the North Jersey organization to an urgent council in the grand drawing room.
Seated around the wide marble fireplace were Don Valenti of Queens,
Capo Santoro of the Newark docks,
and Capo Moretti Jr.,
who had taken over his father's Brooklyn interest following the elder Don's recovery.
Carmine stood near the double doors,
his eyes watching every hand movement,
every subtle shift in posture among the three leaders.
I sat at a side table near the window,
seemingly occupied with scanning financial reports on my laptop,
but my true focus was on the tiny thermal sensors I had placed inside the room's ventilation grills.
"The Apex Council has sent an ultimatum,
gentlemen,"
Gabriel announced,
his voice echoing off the carved plaster ceiling.
"They want us to hand over Elena Vance,"
"and in exchange,
they promise to destroy all remaining stockpiles of the Phantom Weave."
Don Valenti set his teacup down with a sharp clatter against the saucer.
"Gabriel,"
Valenti said,
his tone laced with false concern,
"the girl has done great things for us,"
"no one denies that."
"But we are talking about a global syndicate with unlimited capital,"
Valenti continued,
leaning forward with a desperate look in his eyes.
"If handing over one housekeeper saves our shipping lanes and guarantees peace with Europe,"
"isn't that a price we have to consider?"
Carmine took a heavy step forward,
his hand instantly resting on his weapon.
"Watch your mouth,
Valenti,"
Carmine barked coldly.
"She isn't a housekeeper,"
"she's family now."
"Family?"
Capo Santoro scoffed,
standing up from his armchair.
"We are businessmen,
Carmine!"
"We don't burn down our entire syndicate for a girl from Paterson!"
I didn't utter a single word.
Instead,
I looked down at my tablet screen,
watching the live thermal readings coming from Capo Santoro's left jacket pocket.
A microscopic heat signature was radiating from his coat—a small,
active satellite transmitter pulsing every six seconds.
"Capo Santoro,"
I spoke up softly,
my voice cutting through the rising argument like a cold blade.
"Why is your phone transmitting an encrypted burst signal to an IP address in Zurich right now?"
The room fell into an instant,
suffocating silence.
Santoro froze,
his eyes widening in sudden,
sheer panic.
"What nonsense are you talking about?"
Santoro stammered,
taking a backward step toward the window.
"I don't know anything about Zurich!"
I stood up from my table,
holding my tablet toward Gabriel.
"He didn't come here to negotiate,
Mr. Falcone,"
I revealed calmly.
"He was promised thirty percent of the Newark port terminals if he confirmed your presence in this room at twelve fifteen."
"The burst transmitter in his pocket,"
I added,
"is a targeting beacon for an incoming precision drone strike."
Before Santoro could draw his hidden firearm,
Gabriel reacted with terrifying speed.
He pulled his heavy automatic pistol from his shoulder holster and fired a single,
flawless shot that struck Santoro directly in the chest.
Santoro collapsed backward onto the Persian rug,
his satellite transmitter skidding out of his pocket and rolling across the marble floor.
"Carmine!"
Gabriel bellowed.
"Clear the room!"
"Evacuate the mansion now!"
Outside the tall windows,
a high-pitched whistling roar cut through the rain-heavy air.
A military-grade stealth drone descended from the clouds above the tree line,
its targeted laser optics locking directly onto the thermal beacon in the drawing room.
Carmine grabbed my arm with a grip of iron,
shoving me through the heavy oak doors into the hallway just as the entire roof of the drawing room exploded into a blinding fireball of shattered stone,
May you like
flames,
and roaring destruction.
