Chapter 8 - The Ambush in the Grand Foyer
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BANG.
The heavy double front doors of the estate were breached with a hydraulic tactical ram.
Twelve heavily armed federal agents in black tactical gear, accompanied by Senior Assistant United States Attorney Marcus Cole, flooded the grand foyer with weapons drawn.
“FEDERAL AGENTS! DROP THE WEAPON! GET ON YOUR KNEES!”
Marco slowly raised his hands, unclipping his holster and allowing his Glock to clatter onto the marble floor.
Two federal marshals stepped behind him, kicking his legs apart, forcing him down onto his knees on the Persian rug.
Click. Snap.
The heavy steel transport handcuffs locked around his wrists with a sharp, resonant crack.
Prosecutor Cole strode forward, holding a forty-page federal indictment bearing the gold seal of the United States District Court for the Eastern District of New York.
“Marco Santoro,” Prosecutor Cole declared with clinical authority. “You are under arrest pursuant to a twenty-four-count indictment charging Murder-for-Hire, Deprivation of Civil Rights Resulting in Death, Interstate Witness Tampering, and Grand Racketeering.”
Marco looked up at me, his handsome face contorted into a grotesque sneer of desperate malice.
“You think you won, Dominic?!” Marco spat, thrashing against the marshals' grip. “Don Alberto Falcone controls half the judges in this state! I’ll be out on bail by Tuesday! And when I walk out of that courthouse, you won't be able to protect those three brats forever!”
I walked across the marble foyer, stopping two feet from the kneeling traitor.
I pulled out my smartphone and hit play on a live conference call.
The speaker filled the room with the panicked, weeping voice of Don Alberto Falcone:
‘Dominic! I swear on my mother’s soul, it was all Marco’s idea! He approached us with the shipping manifests! We surrendered the five million dollars in offshore bank bonds to federal prosecutors an hour ago! Do not dismantle our families!’
Marco’s jaw fell open. His arrogance completely evaporated into pure, unadulterated terror.
“Alberto surrendered his books, Marco,” I whispered into his ear. “He traded your head to save his own empire. You have no money, you have no family, and you have no tomorrow.”
The marshals hauled Marco to his feet.
May you like
As he was dragged through the front doors in chains, press camera helicopters—alerted to the historic raid—circled overhead, broadcasting the sensational fall of New York’s deadliest traitor across every television screen in America.
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