Chapter 8 - THE MASK SLIPS"D-Domenico!" Silvio forced a frantic, manic laugh, stepping forward with his hands raised. "Thank God! We thought you were dead! The wedding... we were just waiting for you to recover..."
Domenico didn't smile. He raised his left hand, and from his breast pocket, he pulled out a small, blood-stained leather notebook—Dr. Adrian Cole’s personal ledger, detailing every financial transaction, every offshore transfer, and every single drop of neurotoxin administered over the last six months.
"Twelve years, Silvio," Domenico said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper that cut through the silent church like a razor. "Twelve years I trusted you with my back, my business, and my life. And you decided that a bullet in Brooklyn Avenue was your invitation to steal the crown."
The guests in the pews began murmuring frantically. Powerful politicians and mob bosses alike started sliding toward the edges of their rows, realizing they had walked into the middle of a war zone.
"You're out of your mind!" Silvio shrieked, panic finally breaking through his polished facade. He reached frantically inside his jacket for his concealed pistol. "You're a sick, paranoid cripple—!"
Before Silvio's fingers could even touch his holster, a deafening gunshot echoed through the vaulted ceilings of the cathedral.
Silvio froze. A small, perfect crimson hole appeared dead center in the polished wooden pulpit inches from his chest. Bruno stood at the side aisle, the barrel of his smoking Colt pistol still smoking faintly.
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"Move your hand one more inch, Silvio," Bruno said softly, his voice deadpan and lethal, "and the next bullet won't miss."
Camille collapsed onto the stone floor of the altar, sobbing hysterically, clutching the hem of her expensive wedding dress as her entire world collapsed around her.
