Chapter 7 - Blood on the Marble
The kiss was violent, desperate, and tasted of adrenaline and forbidden fire.
Leo backed Norah against the mahogany paneling, his hands tangling in her dark hair, pulling her against the hard contours of his chest. Norah gasped into his mouth, her hands gripping his biceps, feeling the coiled, lethal power of a man who lived on the edge of oblivion.
For a terrifying, glorious minute, the war outside vanished. There were no rival syndicates, no hitmen, no paralyzed fathers. There was only the friction of his lips, the bruising pressure of his grip, and the wild, frantic rhythm of two hearts racing against the clock.
When he finally broke the kiss, both of them were breathless, their foreheads resting together.
"You're the most stubborn woman I've ever met in my life," Leo growled, his thumb tracing the swollen line of her lower lip.
"Occupational hazard," she whispered back, a faint, defiant smile touching her lips.
Leo closed his eyes for a second, collecting the iron discipline that made him feared across five states. When he opened them, the mob boss was back. "If you're coming to Queens, you wear Kevlar under your blouse. You do not speak. You do not react. If gunfire breaks out, you drop to the floor and crawl toward the service exit. Dante’s replacement, Marco, will be on you like a shadow."
"Understood," Norah said, stepping back, smoothing down her scrub top. "Now let me finish his leg extensions."
***
The convoy left the estate at dusk the following evening.
Three armored Cadillac Escalades moved in tight formation down the rain-slicked highway toward New York City. Norah sat in the middle vehicle, sandwiched between Leo and Vincenzo.
Vincenzo was dressed in a bespoke three-piece charcoal suit, his silver hair slicked back with vintage pomade. A heavy gold signet ring adorned his functioning left pinky finger. Across his lap lay a new cane—black lacquered mahogany with an obsidian handle, carried not for support, but as a weapon of intimidation.
Norah wore a tailored black blazer over a discreet Kevlar vest, her medical kit compressed into a sleek leather shoulder bag. Her fingers were cold.
Leo sat silently, checking the action on a compact custom Sig Sauer. He slid the magazine into the grip with a hollow *click*, then slid the weapon into his shoulder holster beneath his tailored jacket.
"The meeting is at the Saint Regis banquet hall in Long Island City," Leo explained quietly, looking out the tinted window at the neon glow of the Manhattan skyline across the river. "The ground floor is neutral territory, maintained by the Lucchese family. Weapons are technically barred at the conference table. But Marcone’s men control the perimeter."
"How will we know if it's an ambush?" Norah asked.
Vincenzo turned his head. The droop in his face was masked by clever grooming and the heavy shadows of the car, but the predatory gleam in his eye was razor-sharp.
"It... is... always... an ambush," Vincenzo said, his voice low, guttural, and chillingly clear.
The Escalades pulled into the underground parking garage of the Saint Regis.
The air was damp and smelled of exhaust fumes and cold concrete. Dozens of men in dark overcoats stood in clusters around the garage pillars, their hands buried deep in their pockets. As the Moretti convoy stopped, every set of eyes locked onto the rear doors.
Leo stepped out first.
He buttoned his jacket, scanning the garage with a predator’s dead-eyed appraisal. He offered no greetings. He simply turned and held the door open for his father.
Norah felt her breath freeze in her throat. This was the moment.
If Vincenzo stumbled getting out of the car, if his dead leg dragged, the rumors would be confirmed. The sharks would smell the blood.
Inside the SUV, Norah placed her hand briefly on Vincenzo’s left knee. "Heel, then toe," she whispered. "Own the ground."
Vincenzo gave a single, imperceptible nod.
He slid to the edge of the leather seat. He planted his functioning left foot on the concrete.
Then, his right foot came down beside it. Solid. Firm.
With a smooth, deliberate exertion of iron will, Vincenzo Moretti stood up out of the vehicle.
He didn't wobble. He didn't lean on the door. He adjusted the lapels of his charcoal suit with his left hand, rested his weight casually on the obsidian cane, and looked across the garage at the gathered capos.
A collective, silent shockwave rippled through the underground structure.
Men who had spent the last three months placing bets on his funeral instinctively straightened their backs. Some dropped their cigarettes. Others averted their eyes.
Vincenzo turned slightly and offered his left elbow to Norah.
A grand gesture. An insult to his enemies. He wasn't being supported by a nurse; he was escorting a beautiful woman into a den of wolves.
Norah slipped her hand through the crook of his arm, feeling the terrifying, vibrating tension in his bicep. She walked beside him, matching his slow, deliberate cadence—step by step, hiding the microscopic drag of his right heel with the flare of her own stride.
Leo walked half a pace behind his father’s right shoulder, a ghost with a gun.
The double doors to the Grand Council chamber opened, revealing a long, mahogany conference table bathed in the harsh light of crystal chandeliers.
Seated at the far end was Salvatore Marcone.
Marcone was fifty, thick-necked, with slicked black hair and the cruel, bloated face of a butcher who had grown rich. When he saw Vincenzo walk through the double doors on his own two feet, the smile vanished from his face as if it had been wiped away with a wet rag.
"Vincenzo," Marcone said, standing up slowly, his voice tight. "We heard... you were indisposed."
Vincenzo walked to the head of the table. He pulled out the heavy leather executive chair with his left hand, seated himself with agonizing grace, and leaned his cane against the table.
He looked down the length of the room at the other four crime bosses, his gaze cold enough to freeze water.
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"You heard... wrong, Salvatore," Vincenzo rasped.
***
