Chapter 13 - The Last Godfather
Z
The single gunshot echoed through the empty airport alley, swallowed almost instantly by the roaring storm and the crackle of the burning hangar behind us.
Matteo Varghese dropped to his knees, clutching his shoulder where my bullet had shattered his collarbone. He gasped for air, his arrogance collapsing into sheer, terrified agony.
"I didn't come here to kill you, Matteo," I said, stepping over him and pulling a satellite phone from his coat pocket. "I came to deliver a message to your family in Milan."
I dialed the top speed-dial number on Varghese’s phone and pressed speakerphone.
After three rings, a deep, raspy voice answered in Italian: "Matteo? Is it done?"
"Matteo is breathing, but barely," I said into the phone in flawless Italian. "This is Daniel Moretti. If another syndicate operative sets foot in the United States, I will personally unlock Gabriel Moretti’s overseas accounts and place a fifty-million-dollar bounty on every captain in Milan."
Silence hung on the line for five agonizing seconds.
"Moretti..." the old voice whispered from Milan. "We were told Gabriel was dead."
"Gabriel is very much alive," I said, looking down at Varghese. "And his grandson runs New York now. Send your clean-up crew to Teterboro Airport. You have two hours before the feds arrive."
I ended the call, tossed the phone onto Varghese’s lap, and turned my back on him.
Marcus walked up beside me, handing me a clean towel to wipe the rainwater and gunpowder residue from my hands. "Hangar's cleared, Boss. Local police comms are blowing up, but we’ve got ten minutes before emergency response arrives."
"Get the men into the vans," I ordered. "We're heading back to Manhattan."
Two hours later, as the first light of dawn began to bleed through the gray clouds over Lower Manhattan, I walked into the penthouse suite of the Moretti Building on Wall Street.
Gabriel Moretti was sitting in a high-backed leather armchair near the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the skyline he had once ruled. Beside him stood Maria, holding a cup of steaming coffee, her eyes weary but filled with a quiet relief as I stepped through the double doors.
Gabriel turned his head slowly, looking at my mud-stained clothes and bruised knuckles.
"Varghese?" the old man asked softly.
"On a flight back to Milan with a shattered shoulder and a very clear understanding of who runs this territory," I replied, tossing my jacket onto the sofa.
Gabriel let out a long, shuddering sigh. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the leather cushion. For the first time in thirty years, the lines of tension etched into his face seemed to smooth out.
"It is finished," Gabriel whispered. "The debt Eleanor owed... the blood Arthur spilled... it is finally settled."
Maria walked over to me, handing me the cup of coffee. Her hand lingered against mine, warm and steady.
"What now, Boss?" she asked, a faint, genuine smile touching her lips.
"No more bosses, Maria," I said, taking a sip of the bitter coffee as I looked out at the sunrise over the Brooklyn Bridge. "The syndicate is finished. The money goes to the foundation. And we build something clean."
Gabriel looked at us both, a serene smile gracing his old lips. He closed his eyes, his breathing slowing into a peaceful, rhythmic rhythm.
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Teresa Russo stepped into the room from the side corridor, took one look at Gabriel, and quietly walked over to place her hand over his pulse. She looked up at me, nodding softly.
Gabriel Moretti had passed away. Not in a hospital bed, not as a prisoner, but as a free man in his own city, knowing his bloodline had survived.
