Chapter 7 - The Mastermind’s Fall
Adrian did not snap Silvio’s neck.
Not yet.
With a look of cold disgust, Adrian hurled the gasping old man onto the marble floor at the feet of the council. Silvio curled into a pathetic, wheezing ball, coughing violently as he clutched his bruised throat.
"Killing him now is too merciful," Adrian said, turning his back on Silvio and facing Don Carmine Falcone.
Falcone had not moved. His cigar had burned down to the band, sending a thin, nervous spiral of smoke toward the chandelier.
"You brought the truth to the table, Adrian," Falcone said, his voice raspy, attempting to regain control of the room. "The council acknowledges Silvio Castiglione's treason. His bloodline is stripped of all rank. His territories will be divided among the remaining four families."
"No," Elena’s voice rang out, sharp as a whip.
Every man turned to look at her.
Elena stood up, tall and unyielding. "The Castiglione territories belong to me. My father built them with honor. You will not carve up my family's legacy like vultures over fresh carrion."
Falcone chuckled darkly, though the sound lacked its usual confidence. "With all respect, Mrs. Moretti, a woman cannot lead a seat on the Commission. That is the old law."
"The old law is dead," Adrian said, stepping beside his wife. "And so is the man who supplied the C-4 on the Queensboro Bridge."
Falcone froze. The faint smile vanished from his lips.
Adrian reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a single sheet of paper: the encrypted bank ledger from Julian Moretti’s private vault.
He slid it down the table until it came to rest directly beneath Falcone’s crystal ashtray.
"Account 884-Bravo, Cayman National Bank," Adrian said, each word landing like a hammer blow on an anvil. "Two million dollars wired on October 16, 2013, to purchase military-grade ordnance from a corrupt naval commander in Norfolk. The account’s sole signatory was Carmine Falcone."
The entire room gasped.
Lucchese and Gambino immediately backed their chairs away from Falcone, creating a wide, hostile berth.
"You..." Falcone whispered, his weathered hands curling into fists. "Julian was snooping where he didn't belong. He was going to expose the Brighton Beach corridor to the federal authorities!"
"Julian was protecting this city from poison!" Adrian roared, his voice reverberating off the granite with the force of an artillery shell. "You killed my brother because you were greedy! You partnered with a traitorous rat to murder Vincent Castiglione so you could flood the eastern seaboard with fentanyl!"
Falcone realized within a heartbeat that he had lost the room. The other families were already reaching for their sidearms, their eyes blazing with the unforgivable sin of inter-family assassination.
Falcone didn't hesitate.
He kicked the edge of the conference table upward, sending glasses and heavy decanters crashing to the floor, while his left hand dove beneath his coat for his gold-plated Colt .45.
"Kill them all!" Falcone screamed.
Gunfire erupted inside the concrete vault with ear-shattering ferocity.
Marco fired his shotgun, blasting Falcone’s primary bodyguard through the mahogany paneling. Lucchese’s men opened fire on Falcone’s flank, turning the oval chamber into a raging tempest of lead, smoke, and shattered crystal.
Adrian didn't draw his gun to shoot Falcone.
He threw his entire body over Elena, shielding her with his Kevlar-lined frame as two rounds pinged hard off his back armor. The impact drove the air from his lungs, but he didn't waver. He swept Elena off her feet, carrying her behind the heavy steel vault door out of the direct line of fire.
"Are you hit?" she screamed through the roar of gunfire, her hands wildly checking his chest, his arms, his face.
"Armor took it," Adrian grunted, his teeth bared in a feral grin. "Stay behind the jamb!"
Across the room, Falcone had scrambled through a concealed rear service tunnel behind the vault’s wine cellar, dragging Silvio with him at gunpoint as a human shield.
"He’s heading for the loading dock!" Marco yelled, slamming another drum of shells into his shotgun. "He’s got an armored Suburban waiting on 55th Street!"
"Cover the exit!" Adrian commanded. "Nobody leaves this building alive if they wear Falcone colors!"
Adrian broke into an all-out sprint down the narrow wine cellar corridor.
The air was thick with the scent of spilled vintage wine and cordite. Ahead of him, the metal door leading to the subterranean delivery ramp was swinging shut.
Adrian threw his shoulder against the door, bursting through into the cold rain of the alleyway.
Falcone was shoving Silvio into the back of a heavily armored black SUV. The driver was already revving the massive twin-turbo V8 engine, tires spinning against the wet cobblestones.
"Falcone!" Adrian roared.
Falcone turned, raising his gold-plated Colt, his face twisted in a mask of manic desperation.
He fired.
The bullet grazed Adrian’s left shoulder, tearing through the fine wool of his suit jacket and leaving a hot line of fire across his flesh.
Adrian didn't flinch. He didn't even blink.
He raised his Sig Sauer with both hands, took half a second to acquire the sight picture through the pouring rain, and squeezed the trigger twice.
The first round shattered the front windshield, taking out the driver instantly. The SUV lurched violently to the left, crashing into the steel support pillars of the hotel loading dock with a sickening crunch of twisted metal and steam.
Falcone stumbled backward, losing his footing on the slick asphalt, falling flat on his back in the middle of the alley.
Adrian walked forward. His footsteps were measured, heavy, relentless.
Silvio Castiglione scrambled out of the ruined backseat of the SUV, crawling on his hands and knees through the puddles, weeping and begging for mercy.
"Adrian! Adrian, please! I'm your wife's flesh and blood! Vincent wouldn't want this! Elena wouldn't want this!"
Adrian stopped five feet from Falcone, who was clutching his broken collarbone, staring up into the barrel of Adrian’s gun.
"You're right, Silvio," Adrian said, his voice flat and terrifyingly calm. "Elena wouldn't want this."
Behind him, the alley door opened.
Elena stepped out into the rain.
She didn't run. She walked with deliberate, sovereign grace, her black dress soaked with rain, her face pale, beautiful, and absolutely remorseless.
She walked past Silvio, ignoring his outstretched, muddy hands as if he were nothing more than a stray dog, and stopped beside Adrian.
She looked down at Carmine Falcone.
"Don Carmine," Elena said, her voice cutting through the hiss of the steam and the rumble of thunder. "You told the council that a woman could not hold a seat on the Commission."
Falcone coughed up a spatter of red onto his silver beard. "Elena... your father..."
"My father was ten times the man you will ever be," she whispered.
She turned her gaze to Adrian.
"Adrian."
"Yes, my love?"
"Clean our house."
May you like
Adrian fired.
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