Chapter 2 - The Serpent in the House"What is the meaning of this, Damiano?"
Don Silvio Marchetti stepped forward, his ivory-handled cane tapping rhythmically against the floor. His white suit was immaculate, contrasting sharply with his black heart. At seventy-two, Silvio was the oldest remaining mafia don in the Tri-State area, a relic of an era built on heroin and dock strikes. He thought age granted him immunity. He forgot that winter doesn't negotiate with old trees.
"You look tense, Silvio," Damiano replied smoothly, sliding the crumpled crayon heart into the inside pocket of his jacket right over his heart. He walked toward the older man, his stride predatory. "Someone invited uninvited guests into my home tonight. Specifically, two men from the NYPD Financial Crimes Unit. The same unit that answers directly to your cousin in the DA's office."
Silvio’s smile didn't reach his eyes. "You're imagining things, boy. A servant gets caught stealing a million-dollar diamond from a guest's coat, and you’re turning it into a conspiracy? You’re losing your grip, Verrone. Too many years playing the philanthropist."
"Maya," Damiano said softly, looking down at the little girl who still clutched the hem of his trousers. "Go with Rafael. He’ll take you to the kitchen and give you all the chocolate ice cream you want. Don't look back."
Rafael gently scooped Maya into his arms. The little girl buried her face in Rafael’s broad shoulder, casting one last terrified glance at the looming figures of the underworld elite.
Once the heavy oak doors of the service corridor shut behind them, Damiano’s demeanor shifted from calm to glacial. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"My housekeeper doesn't steal," Damiano said, stepping so close to Silvio that the older man could smell the cedar and tobacco on his skin. "Because anything in this house already belongs to me. If someone wanted a diamond planted in Clara's locker, it wasn't for the jewel. It was to create a distraction."
"A distraction for what?" Emilio Castri sneered from the bar.
Before Emilio could finish his sentence, the lights in the grand hall flickered once, twice, and died.
Emergency generators kicked in three seconds later, bathing the room in an eerie, sickly green hue. But the music didn't return. Instead, the heavy iron security shutters over the front windows slammed down with a deafening, metallic crash.
A computerized voice echoed from the estate's intercom system: Perimeter breached. Sector Four. All internal lines jammed.
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"Well, well," Silvio whispered, his face draining of color as he realized the trap hadn't been set by Damiano for him—it had been set for them. "What is this?"
"This," Damiano said, pulling a suppressed Walther PPK from his shoulder holster with terrifying speed, "is why you should never bring outsiders to a family dinner."
