Chapter 8 - Blood and Betrayal in the East WingThe silence that followed was heavier than any violence.
Aldo Greco lowered his head, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. "I knew it," the old capo murmured, looking at the floor. "When I saw the stallion's brand... and the way you stared at that corner yesterday, boss. I knew."
Adriano dropped the colored drawing. It fluttered down and landed softly in the straw near Umbra’s hoof. He didn't care. He dropped to his knees right there in the dirt, ignoring the expensive Italian wool of his trousers, and stared up at Lena.
"You're my sister," Adriano breathed, the realization washing over him with the force of a tidal wave. "Little... little sister. Dad hid you with his brother out here in Kentucky after the hit. They told me you were all gone in the fire."
"They lied to both of us," Lena said, her voice breaking as the cold armor she had worn for a decade finally cracked wide open. "Dad died thinking you were dead in Philadelphia. I spent my whole life cleaning other people's floors just to keep Mom in a bed that didn't smell like bleach, wondering if anyone in the world cared that we existed."
Before Adriano could answer, the sharp, distinct clack-clack of running boots echoed from the main entrance of the barn.
"Boss!"
It was one of the secondary enforcers stationed outside by the Escalades. He burst through the double doors, his face pale, holding a smoking satellite phone.
"We got a secure ping on the Philadelphia line! The council... they tracked your chopper, boss! They know you're down here in Kentucky trying to buy a horse farm instead of closing the Brooklyn docks!"
Adriano’s head snapped up, the vulnerability vanishing in a single microsecond, replaced instantly by the cold, lethal killer who ruled the Eastern Seaboard. "Who's on the line?"
"Uncle Sal," the enforcer panted. "And he didn't come alone. They hit the Delaware warehouse an hour ago. They know about the family trust fund. They know about your sister."
Color drained from Aldo Greco’s face. "Sal knew about the Kentucky property all along," Aldo hissed. "He was waiting for you to find her so he could wipe out the last bloodline in one clean sweep."
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As if on cue, the heavy iron gates at the far end of the farm's main entrance groaned under the weight of three speeding pickup trucks kicking up gravel and dust. Four men in black tactical gear tumbled out of the beds, automatic weapons raised, led by a heavy-set, scarred man with a cold, dead grin.
Salvatore Ferrante had arrived to finish what the fire started twenty-five years ago.
