Chapter 22 - The Bloodline’s Ultimatum
The salt air whipped around the abandoned warehouse at Pier 44. Massimo stood leaning casually against the hood of his Mercedes, arms crossed, watching the dark waves crash against the pylons. Standing five paces away was an elderly man impeccably dressed in a tailored white suit, flanked by two towering enforcers whose faces bore the classic scars of old Palermo vendettas.
“You think because you can walk again, you can walk away from the table, Massimo?” the old man rasped, his voice smooth as aged poison. Don Valerio.
“I walked away three years ago, Valerio,” Massimo replied, his tone chillingly flat, the complete antithesis of fear. “The Pascale name no longer pays tribute to ghosts in Sicily.”
Valerio chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “A family is like a spine, boy. You can put titanium rods in it, but when the main nerve is cut, you crumble. And your weakness isn't your legs anymore.” Valerio’s eyes flicked past Massimo toward the entrance of the pier where my car had just screeched to a halt. “It’s the doctor.”
May you like
Massimo’s dark eyes flared with sudden, lethal fury. Before Valerio could blink, Massimo lunged forward, drawing his weapon and pressing the cold steel directly beneath the old man’s chin.
“If you ever look at her, if you ever speak her name again,” Massimo whispered, every syllable dripping with executioner’s blood, “I will ship you back to Palermo in pieces.”
