The wound was not clean. When Nora peeled back the blood-soaked linen of the man’s custom-tailored shirt, she didn’t find the neat, circular puncture of a low-caliber handgun. This was a jagged, tearing ruin of flesh. A blade had done this—a heavy

A Crown of Thorns in BrooklynThe warehouse at Pier 17 smelled of diesel, rotting wood, and salt water.

As Nora pulled the gray sedan through the chain-link gate, four men in heavy coats stepped out from the shadows. Unlike the Valenti hitmen, these men carried military-grade rifles openly. When they saw Marcello’s face through the passenger window, they immediately lowered their weapons and rushed forward to help.

"Don," one of them—a bald, thick-necked man named Russo—said, opening the door. "We thought you were dead. The reports from the highway said your car was destroyed."

"It was," Marcello said, grunting as Russo helped him out of the car. "But I found a doctor." He nodded toward Nora.

Russo looked at Nora, his brow furrowing. "The waitress from the diner? Sir, is she secure?"

"She's Chiara Rossi's granddaughter," Marcello said, his voice carrying an authority that made Russo instantly straighten his back. "She stitched me up in a closet while three of Valenti’s men were looking for me. She treated me with more respect than my own captains did."

Russo’s attitude shifted immediately. He bowed his head slightly toward Nora. "Miss Rossi. It’s an honor. Your family’s name is still spoken with great respect in the old neighborhoods."

"Save the history lesson," Nora said, stepping out of the car and wiping her hands on her apron. "He needs real medical attention. My stitches will hold for twenty-four hours, but he has an internal bleed that’s going to turn into a fever if you don't get a proper surgeon in here."

"The doctor is already on his way," Russo said. He turned to Marcello. "Sir, we have a problem. Valenti has already taken over the terminal at Pier 40. He’s telling the other families that you're dead and that the Vitucci territory is now under his protection."

"He's moving too fast," Marcello muttered, his jaw clenching. "He must have a mole in my council. Someone told him exactly when my car would be leaving the estate."

"We're checking the phones now," Russo said. "But right now, we're outnumbered. If they find out we’re here..."

"They won't," Nora interrupted.

Both men turned to look at her.

"How do you know?" Russo asked, his tone slightly defensive.

"Because you're thinking like gangsters," Nora said, walking over to a wooden crate and sitting down. "You think in terms of territory, guns, and muscle. But Valenti isn't looking for a war in the streets; he’s looking for a takeover. He wants the transition to look clean so the other families don't get nervous."

She looked at Marcello. "If he wanted you dead, he would have done it quietly. The fact that he sent a three-man team to a public diner means he's desperate. He needs your body to prove he’s in charge. Without it, he’s just a guy making threats."

Marcello’s eyes lit up with a cold, appreciative fire. "She's right, Russo. If the other families think I'm still alive, they won't back Valenti. They’ll wait to see who wins."

"So what do we do?" Russo asked.

"We make sure they think he's alive," Nora said. "And we do it using the one thing gangsters always ignore."