Chapter 12 - The Blood Lineage and the Broken Code
Dean did not lower the barrel of his weapon.
He kept the iron sights aligned directly with his father’s chest, five inches below the velvet lapel of the smoking jacket.
“Tell your guard to drop his weapon onto the rug and kick it through the door,” Dean ordered, his voice steady as granite.
Vincent gave a slight, flicking gesture with his right index finger.
Marcus unclipped his shoulder holster, let the heavy automatic weapon drop into the thick wool carpet, and nudged it toward Dean’s boots.
Dean kicked the weapon behind him into the hallway, his eyes never leaving the face of the man he had mourned for a decade.
“You let me carry your empty casket down the cathedral steps, old man,” Dean said, the venom in his voice sharp enough to draw blood.
Vincent chuckled softly, reaching for his scotch and taking a slow, measured sip.
“You performed beautifully, Dean.”
“The whole city wept for the fallen prince of the Romano family.”
“Even the federal prosecutor had tears in his eyes at my memorial service.”
Vincent leaned back in the deep leather armchair, crossing one tailored trouser leg over the other.
“A man cannot wage a war of complete annihilation while the federal government is watching his breakfast table.”
“I had to die so that Carlo could hang himself with his own vulgar ambitions.”
“And Michael Reed was just collateral damage in your theatrical production?” Anna interjected, stepping into the golden lamplight.
Vincent looked at her, his smile fading into a cool, assessing gaze.
“Michael Reed was an obstacle, Miss Reed.”
“He was an accountant who suddenly developed the tragic, adolescent delusion of morality.”
“He worked for an organization that generated eighty million dollars a year through extortion, gambling, and harbor protection.”
“Yet when I arranged a discreet, highly profitable logistical partnership with the Moretti cartel, he clutched his rosary beads and threatened my life.”
Vincent set his glass down on the polished mahogany side table with a sharp, definitive click.
“He told me he would present the ledgers to Henry at the Sunday family dinner.”
“He knew Henry’s code.”
“Henry would have put a bullet through my skull in the rose garden before dessert was served.”
“My own father would have killed me to preserve his archaic, Sicilian fairy tale of honor.”
“So you killed Michael first,” Anna said, her knuckles turning white around the grip of her weapon.
“I ordered his house liquidated,” Vincent admitted without a single flicker of remorse.
“The mistake was not the execution, Miss Reed.”
“The mistake was the incompetent Detroit trash that Victor hired to handle the ignition.”
Vincent glanced toward the door, where Victor Shaw was standing in the corridor, shivering between two armed Romano drivers.
“They panicked when Frank Moretti Jr. showed up at the back door,” Vincent continued, his voice cold and clinical.
“They dropped the thermite early, shot Moretti in the alley, and fled before confirming that the entire structure had collapsed into the basement.”
“I spent eighteen years assuming your mother took you to California or Florida under a witness protection alias.”
“I never imagined you were stupid enough to remain in this city, pouring wine for thirty dollars an hour at my father’s table.”
Dean took two slow, deliberate steps forward, closing the distance until the barrel of his gun was three inches from his father’s forehead.
“You broke the first law of Hawthorne Hill,” Dean said, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper.
“You slaughtered the family of a sworn brother.”
“You framed your own blood to start an eighteen-year war that left sixty men dead in the streets.”
“And you hid in a luxury convalescent home while I bled in the alleys cleaning up the messes Carlo left behind.”
Vincent did not flinch from the cold steel hovering between his eyes.
He looked up at his son with a mixture of disappointment and patronizing pity.
“You think you understand power, Dean?”
“You think Henry’s romantic notions of loyalty mean anything in the modern world?”
Vincent reached into the interior pocket of his smoking jacket.
Dean cocked the hammer of his weapon with an audible, metallic snap.
“Easy, son,” Vincent said calmly, slowly withdrawing a slim gold pocket watch and flicking the face open.
“It is five-fifteen in the morning.”
“In precisely forty-five minutes, Carlo is convening the high council at Hawthorne Hill.”
“He has already informed the captains that Henry has suffered a severe ischemic stroke and is no longer capable of holding the seat.”
Dean’s jaw clenched until the bone ached.
“Henry is fine.”
“Henry was sitting at the head of the table six hours ago reading Victor’s lying lips.”
“Henry is eighty years old, Dean,” Vincent said, closing the watch with a sharp snap.
“Carlo’s personal physician, Dr. Mercer, switched Henry’s blood pressure medication at midnight.”
The air was sucked completely out of the room.
Anna gasped, her mind flashing back to Dean mentioning Dr. Mercer’s private trauma bunker where Teresa was supposed to be resting.
“Teresa,” Anna whispered in sheer panic.
“Dean, my mother is at the estate with Dr. Mercer!”
Dean’s face went dead white.
The entire sequence of events shifted in his mind with terrifying clarity.
Dr. Mercer wasn't just a discreet family surgeon.
Dr. Mercer had been turned by Carlo Romano years ago.
“Carlo is executing Henry this morning,” Vincent revealed, his eyes glittering with cold triumph.
“He will declare himself the head of the dynasty, liquidate your street crews, and take total control of the municipal ports by noon.”
Vincent rose slowly from his armchair, towering over his son with calculated arrogance.
“Unless, of course, the rightful heir returns from the grave to claim what Henry built.”
Vincent gestured toward the document bag in Dean’s left hand.
“You have Michael’s ledgers.”
“You have the proof of Carlo’s treason.”
“Give me the ledger, Dean.”
“Come with me to Hawthorne Hill, stand at my right hand, and together we will purge Carlo’s loyalists before the sun rises.”
“We will rule this city as father and son, the way it was always meant to be.”
Dean looked at the man who had given him life, seeing only a monstrous, sociopathic void dressed in velvet.
“You’re right about one thing, Vincent,” Dean said softly.
“We are going to Hawthorne Hill.”
“And the truth is going to be laid out on that dining table before the entire council.”
“But you won't be standing at the head of the room.”
May you like
Dean brought the heavy steel butt of his weapon down across Vincent’s temple with blinding speed.
Vincent collapsed into the velvet armchair with a muffled groan, unconscious before his glass of scotch hit the floor.
