Chapter 33
Chapter 33: The Whispering Gallery
The panic in the New York underworld was immediate. Vincent Moretti’s phone didn't stop ringing for six hours. The judges he had owned for decades were no longer calling to offer protection; they were calling to scream demands for silence.
In a private, soundproof dining room beneath Little Italy, Vincent Moretti sat alone, staring at the shattered remains of his phone. His empire was built on the premise that secrets were permanent. Enzo DeLuca had brought a ghost to New York, and that ghost was bleeding him dry.
"They aren't hitting our blocks," his underboss, Leo, said, stepping into the room with a pale face. "They aren't hitting the gambling houses or the unions. It’s the girl, Boss. Harper Whitcomb. She’s giving the feds the blueprints to the vaults."
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"I know who it is," Vincent growled, his voice a gravelly hiss. He was a heavy-set man with silver hair and the cold, unblinking eyes of a shark. "Preston always said she was the smartest thing he ever broke. He should have killed her when she was ten."
He stood up, walking to the heavy iron safe in the corner of the room. "Call the Commission. Tell them we need a sit-down with DeLuca. If he wants a war for the Five Boroughs, I’ll give him one. But tell him to bring his wife. This isn't a territorial dispute anymore. It’s an audit."
