Clara to cling tightly around his neck and point past his shoulder directly toward the untouched wineglass beside his seat

Roman did not raise his voice. He did not curse his aunt. He simply reached out through the iron bars, took the lapel of Marcus’s torn suit jacket, and dragged his cousin forward until Marcus’s bruised face was pressed flat against the vertical steel slats.

"Listen to me very carefully, Marcus," Roman whispered, his tone so terrifyingly calm that the guards on the stairs felt their skin prickle. "If a single round strikes the masonry of this house, I will not shoot you. I will bring your mother into this corridor, and I will force you to feed her that decanter with a silver spoon until her lungs turn to water."

Marcus let out a wet, terrified sob. "The radio! It’s in my breast pocket! The frequency is set to channel four! I can call them off!"

Roman reached his free hand into Marcus’s jacket and pulled out a heavy, military-grade encrypted walkie-talkie. He let go of Marcus, letting the capo collapse back onto the stone floor, and stepped back into the center of the corridor.

"Salvatore," Roman said.

"Boss."

"Take three men to the nursery. Move Clara into the safe room beneath the library. If anyone breaches the inner foyer who isn't wearing a D’Angelo pin, execute them without warning."

"Consider it done," Salvatore said, turning on his heel and taking the stone steps three at a time.

Roman looked at the remaining guard. "Stay at this gate. If either of them attempts to touch the latch, shoot them through the knees."

"Yes, Don Roman."

Roman turned and climbed the stairs back toward the main floor.

The grand dining gallery had been cleared of family members. Vincent and four senior capos were standing near the shattered grandfather clock, their overcoats buttoned, their personal sidearms drawn and resting against their thighs. Outside the two-story windows, the winter twilight had settled into a deep, bruised purple over the snow-covered pine trees.

"Don Roman," Vincent stepped forward, his expression grave. "The perimeter sensors just went dark on the northern ridge. The cameras are feeding static."

Roman walked to the console table, picked up the walkie-talkie, and pressed the push-to-talk button.

"This is the D’Angelo estate," Roman spoke into the receiver, his American accent crisp, flat, and absolute. "To the unit on the northern ridge: your contract in this house has been terminated."

A moment of heavy static hissed through the speaker.

Then, a harsh, unfamiliar voice answered from the other end—deep, arrogant, and laced with a thick midwestern drawl.

"We don't take orders from dead men, D'Angelo. Marcus was supposed to flash the terrace lights ten minutes ago."

"Marcus is currently resting in my basement," Roman replied smoothly. "And you are standing on private property."

"Then we’re coming in to get him," the voice sneered. "Tell your girl to say her prayers."

The line clicked off.

Roman did not blink. He set the radio down on the console, reached into his suit jacket, and pulled out his customized black-steel Kimber 1911. He racked the slide with a clean, metallic snap.

"Vincent," Roman said.