Chapter 5
The grand conservatory of the Hale estate was a cathedral of glass, wrought iron, and tropical palms, flooded with brilliant mid-morning sunlight. The crystal chandeliers had been switched off, leaving only the sharp, unforgiving daylight illuminating the polished limestone floor.
At the center of the conservatory stood the ceremonial wedding altar, draped in cascades of white orchids and silver ribbon. But the seats were completely empty. The three hundred guests had vanished through the gates, leaving only twelve high-ranking Marconi capos standing guard along the perimeter glass.
Silvio shoved Warren and Preston through the arched French doors.
Both men stumbled onto the limestone, their polished shoes slipping against the fallen flower petals. Warren’s charcoal three-piece suit was disheveled, his tie undone, while Preston clutched his bruised wrist to his chest like a wounded animal.
Giulietta entered behind them, flanked by two armed lieutenants. She walked with the unhurried, majestic stride of a monarch inspecting a conquered fortress, her heavy silk train sweeping smoothly over the stone.
"Sit," Giulietta said, pointing toward two mahogany guest chairs stationed beside the altar.
Warren stood defiant, his chest heaving inside his vest. "I will not sit in my own house under the orders of a twenty-five-year-old girl!"
Silvio stepped up behind him, planting a heavy gloved hand onto Warren’s shoulder and forcing the sixty-six-year-old downward with enough force to make the wood creak. Preston sat down immediately without waiting to be told, his knees knocking together in terror.
Giulietta walked to the altar, resting her hands against the carved marble lectern where the priest was supposed to have stood. She looked down at the two men, her expression carved from stone.
"For three years," Giulietta began, her voice echoing clearly off the high glass domes, "you sat at my father's dinner table. You toasted to his health while he was wasting away from heart failure. You praised his vision for the eastern seaboard."
"Your father was a great man, Giulietta," Warren croaked, trying desperately to find a diplomatic wedge. "He wanted this union! On his deathbed, he told me he wanted our families joined!"
"My father wanted peace, Warren," Giulietta countered, her eyes flashing with cold, dangerous fire. "Because he was tired of burying his children. But I am not tired. And I am not my father."
She reached beneath the lace sleeve of her bridal gown.
From a concealed holster strapped against her thigh beneath the heavy petticoats, Giulietta drew a customized, matte-black 1911 pistol. The slide was engraved with fine platinum scrollwork, the hammer pulled back with a crisp, terrifying mechanical click.
Preston let out a high-pitched whimper, shrinking back against his chair. "Giulietta... please! Don't shoot! I didn't know about Leo! I swear to God on my mother's soul, I didn't know Dad ordered the hit!"
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Warren glared at his son with pure, unmitigated disgust. "Shut your sniveling mouth, Preston! Have some dignity!"
"Dignity?" Giulietta murmured, walking down the two steps from the altar until the barrel of her weapon was leveled directly at Warren’s forehead. "A man who pays mercenaries to bomb a twenty-two-year-old boy in a traffic intersection does not possess dignity, Warren. He possesses only a debt."
