Chapter 7
Before Leonard could draw the weapon concealed beneath his arm, Vincent moved with breathtaking, explosive violence.
His tattooed right hand shot forward, fingers locking around Leonard’s throat like a hydraulic vise. With a single, savage twist of his hips, Vincent slammed the two-hundred-and-forty-pound man face-first onto the banquet table.
China shattered. Crystal flutes exploded into shards, spraying vintage champagne and red wine across the white tablecloth. Leonard let out a choked, suffocating howl as Vincent drove his forearm into the back of the traitor’s neck, pinning him mercilessly amidst the ruined feast.
"You thought you could trade my granddaughter for thirty pieces of silver?" Vincent whispered into Leonard’s ear, his voice a low, terrifying hum.
The three northern elders backed away in terror, their hands raised in immediate, frantic surrender.
"Vincent, please!" one of the elders begged, trembling violently. "We didn't know about Chicago! We swear on our mothers' graves, we didn't know Leonard took Valenti’s money!"
"Then you are either traitors or fools," Laura cut in from the steps, her emerald gown pristine, her voice ringing with icy authority. "And in this family, fools don't get a seat at the table."
Vincent reached down with his free hand, unholstering Leonard’s private pistol from beneath the man’s jacket. He ejected the magazine with a thumb flick, racked the slide to eject the chambered round, and let the brass bullet clatter onto Leonard’s bleeding cheek.
"Santino," Vincent said without looking up.
"Sir," Santino stepped forward, drawing his zip-ties.
"Take Leonard to the basement wine cellar," Vincent commanded. "Strip him of his assets, his cars, his real estate. By sunrise, I want his bank accounts emptied into Emma’s educational trust fund. Then put him on a freight train to Idaho. If he ever returns to New York, shoot him on sight."
"Understood, Don Vincent," Santino replied, hauling the groaning, bloody capo off the table.
Vincent straightened his tie, not a single hair out of place. He wiped a drop of red wine from his lapel with a clean handkerchief, looking across the vast room at his silent, petrified syndicate.
"Does anyone else have an opinion on my granddaughter's place in this family?" Vincent asked, his cold gaze sweeping from table to table.
Not a single soul moved. Grown men, seasoned killers who ruled the city's docks and casinos, looked at the floor in terrified submission.
Suddenly, the massive double doors of the Grand Belvedere’s main entrance burst open with a deafening bang.
The crisp summer air rushed into the room, extinguishing the decorative candles along the foyer.
Standing in the doorway was a tall man in an ash-grey trench coat, flanked by four armed operatives in tactical gear. He carried a silver-tipped walking cane, his face scarred and weather-beaten, his eyes cold as granite.
May you like
It was Marco Valenti—the reigning Don of the Chicago syndicate.
"Well, well, Vincent," Marco’s gravelly voice echoed across the frozen ballroom. "It seems my money didn't buy the discretion I paid for."
