Chapter 18 - The iron fortress
Forty-eight hours later, the private Bellacorte estate on Long Island was locked down tighter than a military base. Steel shutters sealed every first-floor window, snipers paced the slate roofs, and heavily armed guards with Belgian Malinois patrolled the snow-covered perimeter every ten minutes.
Inside the grand dining hall, a lavish spread of roasted meats, aged wines, and imported delicacies sat untouched on a forty-foot banquet table. Noah, dressed in a tailored navy-blue wool sweater and soft velvet trousers, sat at the head of the table in an oversized throne-like chair. His cheeks had regained their rosy color, his appetite had returned, and beside him sat a bowl of freshly peeled winter apples that he was nibbling on with a silver dessert fork.
At his right hand stood Viktor, dressed in an immaculate black suit, hands folded behind his back like an executioner awaiting orders.
At the other end of the room, seated under the heavy crystal chandelier, were the five regional Capos of the Bellacorte crime family. Men who controlled the docks of Brooklyn, the transport hubs of Jersey, the gaming halls of Atlantic City, and the financial schemes of Wall Street. Each of them was sweating profusely, their eyes darting between the armed guards at the doors and the small child sitting at the head of the table.
The double doors swung open, and Richard Bellacorte strode in.
Beside him walked a woman in a thick cream-colored coat. Though pale and frail from years of forced sedation, Sarah’s eyes were clear, fierce, and brimming with life.
When Noah saw her, the silver fork slipped from his small fingers, clattering onto the porcelain plate. "Mommy?"
Sarah broke into a run, dropping to her knees beside Noah’s chair and wrapping her arms around the boy, burying her face into his neck as tears streamed down her cheeks. "My baby. My sweet, brave boy. I'm here. Nobody is ever going to take you away again."
Noah began to sob, his small arms locking around her neck so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Richard watched them for a long moment, a profound, terrifying calm settling over his features. Then, he turned his gaze down the table toward the five Capos.
"You all received my message," Richard said softly, walking slowly down the length of the table, his cane tapping rhythmically on the marble floor. *Tap. Tap. Tap.* "You were told Mark made a tragic mistake and had to be retired. You were told my grandson had been found."
May you like
The Capos nodded nervously, murmuring agreements, offering empty condolences.
"What you were not told," Richard continued, stopping directly behind the chair of Frank 'The Bull' Carmine, the head of the Brooklyn docks, "is that someone in this room gave Mark the codes to the family’s private offshore logistics channel. Someone in this room took a twenty-percent finder’s fee from Dominic Russo to look the other way when that cardboard box was delivered to my lodge in Colorado."
