Chapter 6 - The Trial of the TraitorThree days later, in a secluded underground bunker beneath an abandoned grain silo on the outskirts of Albany, the final reckoning took place.
There were no judges, no juries, and no public press galleries. Just bare concrete walls, harsh overhead fluorescent lights, and the heavy smell of damp earth and motor oil.
Nathan Cross sat tied to a heavy metal chair, his face bruised, his expensive designer clothes torn and filthy. Standing around him were Daniel, Marcus, and four armed enforcers from the Boston syndicate whom Vinnie Gallo had sent down as a gesture of renewed alliance.
Dominic walked out of the shadows, holding a thick manila folder filled with financial records, encrypted chat logs, and signed confessions from the Chicago Board members who had abandoned Nathan the moment their smuggling routes were seized.
“You ran a good game, Nathan,” Dominic said, tossing the folder onto the concrete floor in front of him. “Seventeen years of loyalty, thrown away for a seat at a Chicago table that didn't even respect you.”
Nathan spat a mouthful of blood onto the concrete, looking up with a defiant, bitter sneer.
“You think you won, Dom?” Nathan laughed hoarsely. “You think keeping a maid and her brat in your mansion makes you a family man? You’re still a monster. You’re just a monster who’s learned how to lie to himself.”
Dominic didn't raise his voice. He didn't strike him. He simply stepped closer, looking down at his former brother-in-arms with profound, unshakable pity.
“Maybe I am,” Dominic said quietly. “But at least my monsters are out in the open. Yours died in the dark.”
Dominic turned his back on him, walking toward the heavy metal exit door.
“Take him to the harbor,” Dominic commanded over his shoulder. “Put him on a cargo ship heading south. Let him try to rebuild his empire where nobody knows his name.”
As the heavy door swung open, letting in a cool blast of winter air, I followed Dominic out into the courtyard where the black SUVs were waiting with engines idling.
“What about Claire?” I asked as we climbed into the back seat.
“She’s already on a Greyhound bus heading back to her parents in Ohio,” Dominic said, pulling out his phone to check a secure notification. “Her accounts are frozen, her social circle has blocked her number, and she has exactly fifty dollars to her name. Let her see what the real world looks like without a rich man to fund her vanity.”
I nodded, sliding my tablet into my briefcase. The storm had passed. The blood had been washed from the stone floors of the Hudson Valley estate, and the shadows that had choked the halls for years were finally gone.
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As the convoy pulled away from the silo, heading back toward home, I looked out the window at the endless stretch of snow-covered highway.
Dominic leaned back against the leather seat, closing his eyes for the first time in days, looking not like a kingpin guarding a throne, but a man who had finally earned some peace.
