Chapter 9
Now, only Brennan remained on the flagstones.
The younger brother looked up at Cassian, his eyes hollowed out by the crushing weight of total defeat. His lips trembled through his broken jaw.
“And me, brother?” Brennan wheezed, blood dripping onto his gray collar. “Do you hand me to the feds too?”
Cassian walked slowly around the stone table, his polished shoes clicking against the flagstones. He stopped three paces from Brennan, looking down at his only sibling with eyes that held no rage, no vengeance—only an infinite, desolate void.
“A Morretti does not go to prison, Brennan,” Cassian whispered, his voice low enough that only the front row of capos could hear. “Our father taught us that we settle our debts in our own house.”
Cassian turned to his capos. “The Falco syndicate has twenty soldiers waiting at the rest stop on Route 9, expecting to confirm my death. Silvio. Take thirty men. Take the heavy rifles. Encircle the rest stop and leave no one breathing.”
“With pleasure, Don Cassian,” Silvio answered, rising and bowing his head before signaling his crew to mobilize.
Cassian looked back down at Brennan.
“Frank,” Cassian said softly.
“Yes, Boss?”
“Put Brennan in the back of the transport van,” Cassian ordered, his voice steady as iron. “Drive him down to the docks at Pier 42. Lock him in the storage container where we keep the salt barrels.”
Brennan’s eyes bulged in pure, unadulterated terror. “Cassian! No! Not the salt barrels! Brother, please! Shoot me! Just shoot me like a man!”
“A man protects his mother, Brennan,” Cassian replied, turning his back on him. “You are not a man. You are an infection. And an infection must be salted out.”
The guards dragged Brennan away, his desperate wails echoing off the limestone pillars before being swallowed by the roar of the mobilizing SUVs tearing down the estate driveway.
Within twenty minutes, the estate grounds were cleared.
The sun hung low over the western horizon, casting long, dramatic shadows across the manicured lawns and stone terraces. Cassian walked out onto the private overlook behind the study, overlooking the vast, glittering expanse of the bay.
The wind off the water was crisp, carrying the scent of pine needles, salt spray, and incoming autumn rain.
Greta walked onto the terrace, holding a silver tray with a cup of fresh black coffee. Her fair face was calm now, her uniform neat, her posture carrying the quiet pride of someone who had defended her post.
“Mrs. Morretti is sleeping soundly, Don Cassian,” Greta said softly, setting the cup on the stone balustrade. “Dr. Vance says she will make a full recovery. Her spirit is strong.”
Cassian took a slow sip of the coffee, looking out over the water. “Thank you, Greta. For what you did in that room.”
“She was a mother to me when my own passed, sir,” Greta replied with quiet dignity. “I would have died before letting them break her.”
Cassian reached into his vest pocket, pulled out his heavy gold signet ring, and set it on the tray beside her hand.
“Take this to the estate manager tomorrow morning, Greta,” Cassian murmured. “Have him transfer the deed of the northern cottage into your name. You and your family will never pay rent or answer to another master as long as the Morretti flag flies over this city.”
May you like
Greta’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes welled with tears as she looked down at the ring, then up into his weathered, handsome face. “Don Cassian… I cannot accept this—”
“You can,” Cassian said softly, his deep voice brooking no argument. “Loyalty in this house is paid in gold, not words.”
