Chapter 5 - BLOOD ON THE CASHMERE
"Stay here," Clara whispered, pulling her wrist from Enzo’s grip. Her face was pale, but her spine was stiff as rebar. She pushed through the kitchen doors into the retail area, confronting the three men with nothing but her flour-stained apron.
Enzo remained in the shadows behind the door, peering through the glass.
"We're closed," Clara said, her voice ringing clear. "Get out before I call the sheriff."
Salvatore Bianchi laughed, a dry, rattling cough that ended in a smirk. He reached out and picked up a loaf of sourdough from the display rack, turning it over in his manicured hands before tossing it casually onto the floor. It hit the linoleum with a dull thud.
"The sheriff?" Bianchi purred. "Sweetheart, Sheriff Miller is currently having lunch at the diner on our dime. Don't embarrass yourself. Where’s your father?"
Joseph stepped through the kitchen door, trembling, placing himself between Clara and the mobsters. "I'm here, Bianchi. The money isn't due until Friday."
"Plans change, old man," Bianchi said, taking a step forward. "My employer had a sudden... change in family leadership. Certain accounts are being liquidated immediately. The deed to this property, signed over today. Right now. Or the boys outside will torch this place with you inside it."
"You can't do that!" Clara shouted.
Bianchi’s face hardened. Without warning, his left hand snapped out, catching Clara across the cheek with an open-palm slap.
The crack echoed like a gunshot in the small shop. Clara stumbled back, crying out, hitting the counter and knocking over a tray of pastries.
That was the moment the world stopped for Salvatore Bianchi.
The kitchen swinging door didn't push open; it was ripped off its top hinge with a deafening screech of tearing wood.
Enzo Falcone stepped through the doorway.
He wasn't sitting in a wheelchair. He was standing at his full six-foot-two height, his broad shoulders filling the frame, his coat unbuttoned to reveal the dark tailored vest beneath his canvas layer. The dull, vacant expression of the beggar was completely gone. In its place was the terrifying, pitiless face of the Don of Boston.
Bianchi’s two bodyguards reacted instantly, reaching into their coats for their Glocks.
They were fast, but Enzo had been trained by Sicilian knife-fighters since he was nine years old. Enzo closed the distance in a blur. He drove the heel of his boot straight into the kneecap of the first guard, seized the man's drawing arm, twisted it until the shoulder dislocated with a wet crunch, and stripped the Glock from his fingers in a single fluid motion.
Before the second guard could clear leather, Enzo turned the captured weapon and fired two suppressed rounds through the fabric of the man's coat.
Phut. Phut.
The second guard gasped, his eyes bulging, and crumpled backward into the bread display case, shattering the glass into a thousand glittering shards.
The first guard lay on the floor screaming, clutching his shattered shoulder. Enzo stepped on his throat, cutting the scream to a wet wheeze.
Salvatore Bianchi was frozen. His hand was halfway to his inside pocket, his mouth hanging open, his face bleached the color of lard. His mind was struggling to process the impossible reality standing before him.
"E-Enzo?" Bianchi stammered, his voice shrinking to a child's whimper. "Mr. Falcone?"
"Take your hand out of your coat, Sal," Enzo said. His voice was deathly quiet, almost gentle. "Take it out very slowly, with two fingers, and place your gun on the counter."
Bianchi’s entire body shook violently. He slowly withdrew a snub-nosed revolver and set it on the glass counter next to the spilled buns.
"Mr. Falcone, I swear to God, I didn't know—" Bianchi babbled, dropping to his knees on the glass-covered floor. "Your uncle... Marco said you were dead! He said you were killed in a car accident outside Pittsburgh! He took over the Commission yesterday morning!"
Behind Enzo, Clara stood against the wall, her hand pressed against her stinging red cheek, staring at Enzo with sheer, unadulterated horror. Joseph had collapsed against the flour sacks, clutching his heart, his mouth working silently.
Enzo didn't blink. "Marco declared me dead?"
"Yes! Yes, sir!" Bianchi pleaded, tears cutting tracks through the sweat on his face. "He held a meeting with the five families! He said you walked away and got clipped by rivals! He sent us down here to clean up all of Desmond’s old loose ends—the properties, the notes, everything off the books!"
"Why this town, Sal?" Enzo asked, stepping closer, the barrel of the Glock resting lightly against the crown of Bianchi’s silver head. "Why was Desmond sending money here for thirty years?"
"Because Desmond was driving the car!" Bianchi cried out. "Thirty years ago, Marco ordered a hit on a union boss traveling through these mountains. Desmond was driving. The weather was bad, the car skidded, and they hit Joseph Rossi’s wife instead! Marco wouldn't let Desmond stop. Marco threatened to kill Desmond’s mother if he ever spoke a word of it!"
Enzo felt the cold truth lock into place like the tumbler of a safe.
Desmond hadn't been a monster. Desmond had been a prisoner. Every penny Desmond had ever earned driving Enzo across Boston had been funneled through secret accounts to keep the Rossi family from starving, while Marco Falcone turned the screws, using the debt to bleed Joseph dry.
"And my uncle," Enzo whispered, "he’s here?"
"He's at the Blackwood Manor," Bianchi choked out. "Pike’s hunting lodge, five miles up the mountain ridge! He came down to oversee the transfer of the coal land deeds personally! Please, Enzo... I only followed orders! I was your father’s man before Marco took the chair!"
Enzo looked down at him. There was no rage in his eyes. There was only the cold, absolute judgment of an emperor reclaiming his throne.
"You struck a woman who gave me bread," Enzo said.
May you like
"Enzo, please—"
Enzo didn't fire the gun. He brought the heavy steel slide down across the bridge of Bianchi’s nose with brutal, concussive force. Bianchi hit the floorboards unconscious, blood pooling against the white flour dust.
