Chapter 6
Nico did not hurry. He reached down, took the papers from Marcella’s lap, and folded them neatly into his trouser pocket.
"Rafe," Nico said calmly.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Cut her zip-ties," Nico commanded.
Marcella looked up in shock, rubbing her raw, reddened wrists as the plastic snapped. "Nico... what are you doing?"
"You wanted a wedding, Marcella," Nico murmured, turning toward the iron door. "You’re going to walk down the aisle. Put your veil on."
"Nico, Vincent has thirty men!" Marcella panicked, scrambling to her feet, her hands shaking so violently she could barely gather her torn train. "He will kill you the second he steps onto the terrace!"
Nico paused at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder. A faint, terrible smile touched the corners of his lips beneath his trimmed beard.
"Vincent Corban thinks he is walking into a banquet hall," Nico whispered. "He is walking into an abattoir. Move your feet."
Ten minutes later, the grand courtyard of the Bellandi estate was bathed in crisp, natural late-afternoon daylight. The fountain in the center splashed clean water over carved marble dolphins, while thirty Bellacorte guards in dark suits stood at rigid intervals along the second-floor stone balustrades, their hands resting loosely beneath their coats.
Six black armored Suburbans crested the circular driveway, their tires crunching over the white gravel before coming to a synchronized, aggressive halt.
The doors flew open. Twenty-four men in dark tactical windbreakers spilled out onto the gravel, carrying suppressed carbines at the low ready, immediately fanning out into a defensive perimeter.
From the second vehicle stepped Vincent Corban.
At forty-eight, the Corban patriarch was broad-shouldered, thick-necked, wearing an expensive charcoal three-piece suit, an open wool overcoat, and a gold watch that caught the sunlight. His fair, ruddy face was split into an arrogant, predatory grin as he surveyed the silent courtyard.
"Don Bellandi!" Corban’s booming American voice echoed off the stone facade. "I hope the champagne hasn't gone warm! We hit a bit of traffic on the turnpike!"
At the top of the grand limestone staircase leading to the estate entrance, the heavy oak doors swung open.
Nico Bellandi stepped out onto the portico.
He wore no tactical gear, no armor. He stood tall in his crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his dark trousers perfectly tailored, his polished shoes gleaming under the sun. His right hand rested easily inside his pocket; his left hung at his side, holding a lit cigar.
Beside him stood Marcella.
Her veil was pinned crookedly against her disheveled hair, her gown stained with wine, her fair cheeks pale as chalk. She trembled so violently that the lace of her train fluttered against the stone steps.
Corban took three strides toward the stairs, his grin faltering slightly as his eyes took in Marcella’s ruined appearance and the complete absence of civilian guests.
"What is this, Nico?" Corban asked, his voice hardening, his right hand drifting toward the lapel of his overcoat. "Where is the reception? Where are your captains?"
Nico took a slow, methodical drag from his cigar, blowing a thin plume of gray smoke into the crisp afternoon air.
"My captains are resting, Vincent," Nico said, his deep, raspy voice carrying effortlessly across the gravel. "And the reception has been relocated."
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"Relocated where?" Corban sneered, his men tightening their grips on their weapons.
"To the docks in Newark," Nico murmured, the controlled pause between his words sharp as a straight razor. "Where your three hundred crates of thermite were confiscated by federal customs twenty minutes ago."
