You married a dying 74-year-old woman for five thousand dollars cash, Julian, my dockworker friends laughed at the diner in Newark, shaking their heads. "You're a fake husband to an old lady just...
The triumph over Paragraph 14(b) was short-lived. Garra, clearly sensing his tightening noose, launched a desperate, brutal counterattack.
My phone rang as I was leaving the bank with Old Joe and Rinaldi. It was a frantic call from Mrs. Rodriguez, Leo’s old landlady, who still kept an eye on his boarded-up garage.
“Julian! The police are swarming Leo’s shop!” she cried, her voice trembling. “They’ve got a search warrant. They’re breaking down the doors!”
My blood ran cold. “I’ll be right there.”
I rushed to Leo’s Fix-It. Sirens wailed in the distance, and flashing blue and red lights painted the grimy facade. Detective Brody, Garra’s crooked cop, was overseeing the scene, a grim satisfaction on his face.
“Stay back, Driscoll!” Brody barked as I approached. “This is a crime scene.”
He gestured to Marcus DeLuca, Garra’s enforcer, who stood by with two other burly men, watching the scene unfold with barely concealed smirks. DeLuca caught my eye and flashed a knowing, triumphant grin.
They had already pried open the main garage door. Uniformed officers were swarming inside, flashlights cutting through the gloom.
One officer emerged, holding up a heavy, wood-and-metal crate. Its lid was pried open, revealing the unmistakable glint of automatic weapons.
“We found them, Detective!” the officer shouted, his voice echoing in the street. “Three crates, packed with unregistered firearms. Looks like high-caliber syndicate stuff!”
Brody turned to me, his face devoid of emotion. “Julian Driscoll, you’re under arrest for illegal weapons trafficking, grand larceny, and conspiracy to distribute. Anything you say can and will be used against you.”
Before I could protest, two officers moved in, seizing my arms roughly. They slapped cold metal cuffs on my wrists.
“This is a setup!” I yelled, my voice hoarse. “Garra did this! He’s trying to frame me!”
Brody just smiled, a thin, cruel line. “We’ve had reports of suspicious activity here for weeks, Driscoll. Looks like your brother wasn’t just fixing cars. He was running a private armory for the outfit. And now you’ve inherited his business.”
DeLuca laughed outright, a loud, taunting sound.
I was shoved into the back of a police cruiser, the door slamming shut. The cold steel felt like a cage. My heart pounded with a mix of fury and despair. Garra wasn’t just trying to freeze my assets; he was trying to freeze my freedom. He knew about the charter, about Paragraph 14(b). He was desperate.
From the back of the cruiser, I watched them haul out more crates, each one filled with the menacing glint of metal. The headlines would scream: *Heir to Mob Fortune Arrested in Weapons Bust.* My clean record, the very thing Nora had chosen me for, was being systematically destroyed.
The cruiser pulled away, the sirens wailing, leaving Old Joe and Rinaldi standing helpless on the sidewalk. Garra knew that if I was locked up, I wouldn’t be able to make any court filings. The corporate court deadline was rapidly approaching, and if I missed it, all of Nora’s cunning, all of Old Joe’s loyalty, and all of Rinaldi’s efforts would be for nothing.
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