Chapter 23 - The Judgment of the Patriarch
The grand stone courtyard of Don Carmine’s Hudson Valley estate was shrouded in a heavy mist as our convoy of black SUVs rolled through the wrought-iron gates. Inside the sprawling, medieval-style fortress, the air smelled of burning oak logs and expensive pipe tobacco.
Alistair Vance was dragged into the vaulted great hall by two of Marcus’s toughest enforcers. Stripped of his aristocratic swagger, the ancient patriarch of the Black Shield looked frail and diminished, his silk suit stained with dampness from the underground water facility.
Sitting at the head of a massive mahogany table was Don Carmine himself. The eighty-year-old mafia patriarch didn't look up as Alistair was shoved onto his knees before the hearth. Don Carmine simply swirled a glass of dark red wine, watching the flames dance against the stone.
"Alistair," Don Carmine’s ancient, gravelly voice echoed off the vaulted ceilings. "I thought your bones had turned to dust in Zurich twenty years ago. Imagine my surprise when Ethan’s people dragged you out of a sewer like a drowned rat."
Alistair spat a glob of blood onto the Persian rug, lifting his chin with defiant arrogance. "Do your worst, Carmine. The syndicate outlives men. When I'm gone, another head will grow in my place."
"Perhaps," Don Carmine conceded slowly, taking a slow sip of his wine. He turned his chilling, dead-eyed gaze toward Ethan and me as we stood quietly near the entrance. "What say you, Caldwell? You were the target of his little theatrical bomb threat. How shall we settle accounts with the ghost of New York?"
Ethan stepped forward, his dark gray eyes locking onto Alistair with absolute, unshakeable authority. He didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to.
"Alistair tried to steal my son's life through poison, and he tried to blow up this city to cover his tracks," Ethan stated coldly. "He doesn't deserve a soldier's death. And he certainly doesn't deserve a trial."
"Then name your sentence," Don Carmine commanded.
"Strip him of his name, his assets, and his title," Ethan ordered, his voice echoing through the great hall. "Send him to a nameless federal black site where nobody will ever speak his name again. Let him live out his remaining years in absolute, forgotten obscurity—the one thing a narcissist fears more than death."
Alistair’s eyes widened in sheer horror. "No! You can't do that! Kill me! Just kill me, you arrogant bastard!" he screamed, thrashing against the enforcers holding him.
Don Carmine raised a single, aged finger. "So be it. Take him away."
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As Alistair was dragged screaming out of the great hall, the heavy oak doors slammed shut behind him, sealing the final chapter of the Black Shield's century-long reign of terror.
Don Carmine turned his gaze toward us, a rare, approving smile touching his wrinkled lips. "Well handled, Ethan. And you, my dear Clara... New York owes you a debt it can never repay."
