Chapter 8 - THE RECKONING IN THE GREAT ROOM
Every man at the table froze.
Wendell Pike dropped his glass; it shattered on the hardwood floor.
Marco Falcone slowly set his tumbler down. He didn't turn around immediately. His shoulders went rigid, the color draining from the back of his neck.
The two guards flanking the fireplace reached for their sidearms.
Enzo fired twice.
The suppressed cracks were nearly lost beneath the roaring fire. The two guards dropped instantly, clutching their thighs, their weapons skittering across the floor.
"Hands on the table," Enzo said. The tone was the exact same flat, conversational cadence he had used four days ago in the glass tower over Boston Harbor. "Every single one of you. Flat palms on the wood. If I see a fingernail twitch toward a pocket, I put a hole in Marco’s ear."
The remaining men—local muscle and two Boston accountants—slammed their hands onto the table as if it were red-hot iron.
Marco finally turned his head. His eyes were wide, veins bulging at his temples. "Enzo."
"You're looking well, Uncle," Enzo said, walking slowly into the center of the room. His canvas coat was soaked with melted snow, his hair plastered to his forehead, but his posture was absolute majesty. "You seem surprised. I thought you had a sixth sense for the family business."
"How... how did you find this place?" Marco whispered, his voice trembling despite his attempt to maintain composure.
"Desmond," Enzo answered. "He had a conscience. You wouldn't recognize what that looks like, but it leaves an indelible paper trail. He kept every receipt. Every threat you made against his mother. Every penny you stole from Joseph Rossi to cover your gambling debts in Atlantic City thirty years ago."
Marco’s lip curled into a venomous sneer. "Desmond was a driver! A peasant! Just like that baker down the hill! You threw away the Falcone empire—the docks, the unions, five hundred million dollars in assets—for a driver's guilt over some mountain trash?"
"No," Enzo said, stepping directly behind Marco’s chair. He pressed the cold barrel of the Glock into the base of his uncle’s skull. "I threw away the lie. I spent my life believing you built an empire to protect this family. But you didn't build anything, Marco. You're a tick. You latch onto men like Desmond, men like Joseph Rossi, and you suck them dry until they fall dead on the curb."
Wendell Pike was hyperventilating, pressing himself flat against his chair. "Mr. Falcone, please! I had nothing to do with this! Marco said you were dead! He forced me to sign the land warrants—"
"Be quiet, Wendell," Enzo said without looking at him. "You’ll have your turn in court. Federal court. I’ve already sent your offshore bank routing numbers to the Eastern District Attorney in Boston."
Pike slumped forward, sobbing.
Marco chuckled, a low, desperate sound. "You can't kill me, Enzo. The Commission will tear Boston apart. My loyalists control the North End. If I don't check in by midnight, fifty men will descend on this town and leave nothing but ash."
"Your loyalists?" Enzo pulled his phone from his pocket—the satellite phone he had retrieved from Bianchi’s truck—and tossed it onto the table. "Call your top captain. Call Dominic."
Marco hesitated, then snatched the phone with trembling fingers. He dialed a speed-dial number and put it on speaker.
The phone rang twice.
"Dominic," Marco barked. "Mobilize the crews! Enzo is alive, he’s at the lodge—"
"Marco," a gruff voice answered from the speaker, sounding weary and resigned. "Sit down and shut your mouth."
Marco froze. "What?"
"The Commission met three hours ago," Dominic’s voice boomed through the speaker. "Enzo sent the complete ledgers to every boss in New York, Philadelphia, and Providence before he left Boston. We saw what you skimmed from the port authority pension funds over the last eight years. Twelve million dollars, Marco. Stolen from the families."
Marco’s face turned gray. "Dominic, wait, that was an accounting error—"
"You’re stripped of rank," Dominic said coldly. "The Commission recognizes Enzo as the sole Don of the Falcone family. If Enzo doesn't walk out of that lodge alive tonight, New York will wipe your entire bloodline off the earth. Don Enzo... are you listening?"
Enzo stepped closer to the phone. "I'm here, Dominic."
"The family is yours, boss," Dominic said with absolute deference. "Give the order, and we clean up Boston."
"Keep the docks running," Enzo commanded. "Lock Marco’s personal accounts. And send two transport vans to Ash Ridge, West Virginia. I have some trash that needs collecting."
"Understood, Don Enzo."
The line went dead.
Marco sat frozen, his empire dissolved in the span of sixty seconds. The men at the table kept their heads down, terrified to even make eye contact with Enzo.
"Get up, Marco," Enzo said quietly.
May you like
Marco slowly rose to his feet. He looked old, broken, stripped of the terrifying aura he had wielded for decades. "What are you going to do to me?"
"You're going to do what Desmond did," Enzo said. "You're going to pay a debt."
