Chapter 2 - BLOOD ON THE SILK
Dante did not breathe.
The white photograph stared up from the carpet.
It was Leo.
His younger brother.
Leo’s body lay against the stone wall of Pier 4.
Three years ago, the coroner had called it an accidental drowning.
They said Leo had slipped into the freezing harbor after drinks.
They said the blunt force trauma was from the wooden pylons.
The photograph in Gemma’s hand told a different story.
A thin, dark puncture marked the base of Leo’s neck.
A stiletto blade.
The trademark strike of the Falcone family’s personal enforcers.
Dante’s hand closed around the edge of the dresser.
The mahogany groaned under his grip.
A hairline crack ran through the polished wood.
“Who gave you this?” Dante asked.
His voice was terrifyingly low.
It held the quiet before an artillery strike.
Gemma’s teeth chattered.
She pressed the blood-soaked towel harder against her side.
Crimson seeped through the white terrycloth, staining her pale fingers.
“I went to the Falcone estate,” she whispered.
Every word cost her breath.
“The seating chart. Bianca asked for the final courier envelope.”
Dante knelt closer.
His knees hit the floorboards without a sound.
“Look at me, Gemma.”
She looked up.
Her hazel eyes were glassy with shock, but the intelligence remained.
“Bianca wasn't in the parlor,” Gemma whispered.
A bead of cold sweat rolled down her temple.
“Her private study was open.”
“I heard her talking to Salvatore.”
Salvatore Falcone.
The Don.
Dante’s future father-in-law.
“What did he say?” Dante asked.
His thumb brushed the cold skin of her cheek.
Her skin was clammy.
Shock was setting in.
“Salvatore told her the poison had worked on Leo three years ago.”
Gemma swallowed hard.
Her throat clicked.
“He said tomorrow at the altar, Dante Lombardi would kneel.”
“And when you knelt, their men would take your throat.”
A violent shudder went through her small frame.
“They saw me, Dante.”
She had never called him Dante in five years.
It was always Mr. Lombardi.
Always formal.
Always safe behind the boundary of employer and employee.
Hearing his name from her pale lips struck him harder than a bullet.
“Bianca’s enforcer caught me in the courtyard,” she breathed.
“He had a knife.”
“I had your spare limousine key in my pocket.”
“I drove through their perimeter gates.”
Dante reached out and lifted the towel away from her ribs.
The cut was three inches wide.
Deep.
Dark blood welled over the torn fabric of her blouse.
“You drove three miles with this wound?”
“I had to bring you the file,” she said.
Her fingers caught the lapel of his overcoat.
Her grip was surprisingly tight.
Desperate.
“You cannot marry her tomorrow, Dante.”
“It’s not a wedding.”
“It’s an execution.”
Footsteps sounded on the fire escape outside the bedroom window.
Soft.
Practiced.
A shadow crossed the wet glass.
Dante did not hesitate.
He drew the custom Sig Sauer from his shoulder holster.
He pulled Gemma behind his body in one fluid motion.
The bedroom window shattered inward.
Glass sprayed across the hardwood floor like hail.
A masked man in tactical black swung through the frame.
The barrel of a silenced submachine gun came up.
Dante fired twice.
The double tap took the intruder through the throat and chest.
The man collapsed over the window sill, dead before he touched the carpet.
Outside in the alley below, four car doors slammed open in the downpour.
Dante clicked his radio.
“Enzo.”
Static hissed through the earpiece.
Then Enzo’s urgent voice broke through.
“Dante! Where are you?”
“Her apartment,” Dante said.
His eyes never left the broken window.
“Bring the heavy convoy.”
May you like
“Lock down the city.”
“The wedding is off.”
