Chapter 10 - Ghosts of the Past
The name hung in the cold Lake Geneva air like a death sentence.
“Marco,” Vincenzo’s voice dropped to a terrifying, lethal pitch. “Repeat that name.”
“Your uncle, Dante Russo,” Marco said, holding out the encrypted satellite phone. “He didn't die in the Palermo warehouse fire. He betrayed your father, stole the second half of the ledger, and built the South Side alliance from the shadows while Marcone played the public face.”
I stood frozen on the stone balcony, the wool blanket slipping slightly from my shoulders. The web of deceit was larger, darker, and much closer to home than I ever could have imagined.
“My grandmother always said her brother abandoned them during the war,” I whispered, looking between Vincenzo and Marco. “She said he chose power over family.”
Vincenzo turned to me, his black eyes blazing with a cold fury. “Dante didn't just abandon them—he ordered the hit on my parents’ house. He’s the reason my mother died, and he’s the reason your family had to flee Sicily with fake names.”
He grabbed the satellite phone from Marco’s hand, his knuckles whitening. “Where is he?”
“An abandoned shipping warehouse near the Indiana border,” Marco reported, tapping a digital map on his tablet. “He’s calling a full council meeting tonight to consolidate control over the entire Midwest Outfit. And boss... he knows we have the first half of the ledger.”
Vincenzo looked at me, a silent, agonizing war playing out behind his dark eyes. He knew the risk. He knew Dante was setting a trap.
“I’m coming with you,” I said firmly, stepping forward before he could speak.
“No,” Vincenzo snapped, shaking his head. “This is a blood debt between me and my uncle. You are staying here, where Mateo is safe.”
“Dante hunted my family twenty-five years ago, and he’s been hunting yours just as long,” I retorted, my voice steady despite my racing heart. “You told me blood remembers, Vincenzo. Well, my blood wants answers just as much as yours does. I am not staying behind.”
Vincenzo stared at me for a long, tense moment, recognizing the absolute stubbornness in my eyes—the same stubbornness that had made me stand up to him in the penthouse on day one.
May you like
Slowly, a grim, humorless smile touched the corner of his mouth.
“God help me,” Vincenzo muttered, pulling a concealed 9mm pistol from his jacket and handing it to me, handle first. “If you shoot yourself in the foot, I’m never letting you live it down.”
