My uncle told me I was being shipped off to New Jersey to serve a mandatory alliance contract with a veteran syndicate partner named Gabe DeLuca.
The three-hour deadline pressed down on Vic Ross like a physical weight. Panic etched deep lines on his face as he paced his luxurious office, cell phone glued to his ear, barking orders that went nowhere. Every call was met with excuses, delays, or outright refusals. No one in the syndicate would risk Don Moretti’s wrath by bailing out a capo under audit for $8 million.
Meanwhile, Marcus Devlin, the nervous appraiser, had made his move. Fear of syndicate execution outweighed his greed. With a trembling hand, he had called Don Moretti’s private number, requesting an immunity deal.
He was now in Don Moretti’s private office, a stark, silent room away from the commotion of Vic’s frantic calls. Devlin sat across from Don Moretti himself, a formidable man whose mere presence commanded silence. Mr. Rossi, the chief auditor, stood by Moretti’s side, arms crossed.
“You say Victor Ross personally ordered these fake property devaluations?” Don Moretti’s voice was a low rumble, dangerously calm.
Devlin nodded vigorously, beads of sweat dripping down his temples. “Yes, Don Moretti. He provided me with the figures. Told me exactly what to write. He gave me cash payouts.”
He pulled out a slim digital recorder, pressing play. A muffled conversation filled the room: Vic’s distinctive voice, clear as day, ordering the devaluation of Julian’s warehouse, mentioning “environmental contamination” and a “loose end” that needed to be tied up.
“And these,” Devlin said, his voice gaining a desperate strength, “are the digital logs. My original, unaltered appraisal reports. The ones I kept hidden from Vic, showing the true market values. And these,” he handed over a USB drive, “are the double-entry ledgers I was forced to maintain for him. They show how he funneled funds from syndicate joint accounts into his private offshore shell companies. The Apex Maritime account, for example.”
Mr. Rossi plugged the USB drive into a tablet. Screens filled with columns of numbers and hidden transfers, confirming every detail Devlin had provided. The $150,000 deficit I had created in Apex Maritime now made perfect, incriminating sense.
Don Moretti listened, his face impassive, as Devlin laid out years of Vic’s financial deception. The systematic skimming of $3.2 million from the syndicate’s joint accounts, the fraudulent collateral pledges, the deliberate manipulation of asset values.
Finally, Moretti leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Devlin. “And your involvement, Marcus?”
“I was a tool, Don Moretti,” Devlin pleaded, his voice cracking. “I followed orders. But I always kept the true records. I feared Vic. But I respect the Commission more.”
Moretti steepled his fingers, a long, thoughtful silence filling the room. Then, he looked at Mr. Rossi.
“The evidence is conclusive,” Moretti stated, his voice now cold, hard as granite. “Victor Ross has engaged in systematic fraud against the Commission and against his own family.”
He turned back to Devlin. “Your immunity is granted, Marcus. You will provide everything you have. And you will cooperate fully with the Commission’s liquidation process.”
Devlin sagged in his chair, a wave of relief washing over him. He had chosen survival.
Moretti picked up his private line. “Mr. Rossi, inform Victor Ross that he is officially stripped of his capo rank. Effective immediately. His accounts are impounded. And the margin call stands. He has exactly ten minutes remaining.”
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