Chapter 12 - THE FALL OF THE CORVOS
The historic brownstones of Beacon Hill were cloaked in darkness.
The gas lanterns flickered in the autumn wind.
Three black tactical vans pulled up to the curb outside the Lombardi family’s ancestral townhouse.
Men in dark windbreakers spilled onto the cobblestones with silenced submachine guns.
They breached the wrought-iron gate.
They kicked open the heavy oak front door.
They poured into the marble foyer.
The house was pitch-black.
No servants.
No guards.
Only the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner.
The lead operator tapped his throat mic.
“Target is not in the parlor. Check the master suite.”
A soft click echoed from the grand staircase.
The chandelier above the foyer flared to blinding life.
Standing on the mezzanine above was Dante Lombardi.
Beside him stood twelve heavily armed snipers with laser optics trained on the intruders’ chests.
Red targeting dots danced across the invaders’ jackets.
Victor Corvo stepped into the foyer from the street.
He was tall, broad, with graying hair and scars across his throat.
He looked up at Dante.
“You set a trap,” Corvo spat.
“You walked into my house without an invitation, Victor,” Dante replied calmly.
He leaned against the polished banister.
“In Boston, that carries a death sentence.”
“You gave the feds my New York operations!” Corvo roared.
“You and that Falcone viper!”
“Bianca Falcone made that deal on her own,” Dante said.
“Because she’s a coward.”
“Just like you.”
“I have eighty men in this city, Lombardi!” Corvo threatened, raising his weapon.
“You kill me, Boston burns!”
“Your eighty men were disarmed at the Tobin Bridge twenty minutes ago,” Enzo’s voice rang out from the rear hallway.
Enzo stepped into the foyer, holding a bloody tactical radio.
“Massachusetts State Police and our harbor crews intercepted your trucks.”
“You’re alone, Victor.”
Corvo’s face went white.
He looked at his five remaining operators.
They saw the red laser dots dancing on their foreheads.
One by one, the mercenaries dropped their weapons onto the Persian rug.
Corvo lunged forward, raising his pistol toward the mezzanine.
Dante did not flinch.
Dante fired a single round from his hip.
The hollow-point struck Corvo’s shoulder, spinning him violently to the marble floor.
His gun skittered across the tile.
Dante walked down the grand staircase, his heavy dress shoes clicking on the marble.
He stopped two feet from the fallen Don.
He looked down at Corvo with cold indifference.
“Take him to the harbor,” Dante said to Enzo.
“Put him on a cargo ship bound for Singapore.”
“If he ever sets foot in the United States again, feed him to the cod.”
“Understood, boss,” Enzo said, signaling his men to haul Corvo away.
Dante checked his gold watch.
Ten forty-five.
He turned toward the front door.
May you like
“Prep the car,” Dante said.
“I have an appointment in Marblehead.”
