Chapter 8
Falcone sneered, trying to maintain his bravado. "He was just showing the commission you were weak! You are letting a housemaid dictate the politics of the entire eastern seaboard!"
"Do you consider the premeditated poisoning of my person to be mere politics?" Lowell inquired, stepping off the stairs and closing the distance between them until he was mere inches from Falcone’s face.
"It's business!" Falcone shouted, spit flying from his lips. "And right now, business dictates that you hand him over before I burn this place down!"
"Shall we see how much your business is worth when it is buried in ashes?" Lowell asked softly.
He didn't wait for Falcone to draw a weapon. Lowell moved with blinding speed, his tattooed hand closing like a steel vice around Falcone's throat, lifting the older capo off the floor.
"Did you think I would let you leave this house alive after what your blood tried to do to mine?" Lowell asked, his eyes burning with absolute, murderous intent.
The sound of weapons cocking echoed through the foyer, signaling the beginning of a bloody, uncompromising war. Lowell threw the older man backward, drawing his own suppressed weapon in a single, fluid motion as the grand foyer erupted into deafening violence. The marble shattered around them as Falcone's enforcers opened fire, returning the deadly barrage from the Ashford syndicate.
Upstairs, the sounds of the battle were muffled but unmistakably terrifying. Benedetta sat on the floor of the master suite, her back pressed against the heavy oak door. She held a heavy brass candlestick she had taken from the mantle, her knuckles white. She remained entirely exhausted, terrified by the fact that an army of mafia hitmen were trying to burn her sanctuary down.
Benedetta’s sophisticated black maid dress was covered in dust that had shaken loose from the ceiling. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying for the imposing mafia boss who had promised to protect her.
Suddenly, the handle of the bedroom door rattled violently.
Benedetta gasped, scrambling backward, raising the heavy brass candlestick as the door handle shook again. "Who is it?" she cried out, her voice shaking with terror.
"Are you unharmed, Benedetta?" Lowell's deep, unmistakable voice filtered through the heavy wood.
Benedetta sobbed in relief, immediately throwing the deadbolt and pulling the door open.
Lowell stepped into the room. He looked like a god of war. His crisp white shirt was stained with soot and a few drops of blood, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular, tattooed arms. The neat stubble on his jawline was dark with ash, and a nasty cut ran across his high-bridged nose. Yet, his posture remained unbowed, and his cold, observant eyes swept the room instantly, finding her in the dim light.
"You're bleeding," Benedetta gasped, dropping the candlestick and rushing toward him.
"Is a little blood not the cost of cleaning house?" Lowell asked, catching her by the waist as she collided with his chest. His large, tattooed hand came up to rest gently on the back of her head, holding her close. The smell of gunpowder and expensive cologne enveloped her.
"Is it over?" Benedetta whispered against his chest, terrified of the answer.
"Do you believe Falcone's men will ever pose a threat to us again?" Lowell inquired, stepping back slightly to look down into her face. "Falcone is dead. His remaining men surrendered when they realized they were completely surrounded by my tactical teams."
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Benedetta swallowed hard, the brutal reality of the mafia world crashing over her. She had delivered a single blow, and Lowell had finished a war. "And Thaddeus?"
"Will you accompany me to the cellar to conclude that piece of business tomorrow?" Lowell asked, a dark, unforgiving shadow crossing his eyes.
