Chapter 8
Vincent Corban dropped his empty firearm onto the gravel with a hollow clatter. He stepped out from behind the vehicle, raising his trembling hands into the air, his expensive overcoat covered in soot and shattered safety glass.
"Nico... listen to me," Corban pleaded, his American accent wavering, stripped of all former arrogance. "This was business. The Commission in Chicago sanctioned the merger! If you execute me on your lawn, you start a five-state syndicate war!"
Nico stopped three feet from the rival boss. He took a final, slow drag from his cigar, dropped the glowing butt onto the gravel, and crushed it beneath the polished sole of his leather shoe.
"The Commission did not sanction digitalis in my wife's tea, Vincent," Nico whispered, his slate-gray eyes locking onto Corban’s face with pitiless finality.
"I didn't poison her!" Corban screamed, pointing a shaking finger toward the stairs where Marcella stood cowering. "That was Marcella! She told me Julianna was sick! She told me she was handling the succession! I never touched your wife, Nico! I swear to God on my children's lives!"
"You signed the contract that bought her silence, Vincent," Nico murmured.
Before Corban could draw another breath, Nico’s left hand shot forward like an iron clamp, seizing Corban by the throat. With terrifying, effortless physical power, Nico slammed the older boss backward onto the crumpled hood of the Suburban. The metal buckled beneath the impact.
Nico leaned down, pressing the cold, heavy steel barrel of his 1911 directly against the center of Corban’s forehead.
"You came to my home on a wedding day," Nico said, each word falling like an executioner’s axe. "You brought twenty-four men to butcher my family. You thought you could take the northern docks from an orphan and a widower."
"Nico... please..." Corban choked out, tears of sheer, animal terror leaking from his eyes. "Fifty million dollars... in Zurich bearer bonds... I'll give you the account numbers right now... take everything..."
"I already have your accounts, Vincent," Nico whispered into his ear. "Rafe decrypted your routing codes twenty minutes ago."
Nico pulled the trigger.
The sharp crack of the pistol echoed across the courtyard, instantly swallowed by the vast expanse of the pine forest.
Corban went limp on the crumpled hood, his eyes staring blankly at the clear, pale blue sky.
Nico stepped back, holstering his weapon, completely unruffled. He did not look at the body again. He turned toward the stairs, where Marcella had collapsed onto the stone steps, weeping hysterically, her hands clutching her head.
"Rafe," Nico commanded.
Rafe stepped down from the portico, his rifle lowered. "Yes, Don Bellandi."
"Clear the driveway," Nico ordered, his voice steady as iron. "Call the municipal cleanup crew from Jersey. Have the vehicles towed to the scrap yard in Newark. Let the Five Families know that the Corban territory is officially under Bellandi administration."
"And your sister, Boss?" Rafe asked, looking toward the weeping bride on the steps.
Nico walked slowly up the limestone stairs. He stopped three steps above Marcella, looking down at her with cold, ancient eyes that held neither rage nor sorrow—only absolute, irrevocable erasure.
"Marcella," Nico said softly.
May you like
Marcella looked up through her tangled veil, her face smeared with mascara and dirt. "Nico... please. Don't kill me. I'm your sister. We share our mother's blood."
"Our mother's blood was honorable, Marcella," Nico replied, his controlled pauses stretching between words. "You are a disease. And a disease must be cut out."
