Chapter 2 - The Bloodline of Enna
The private dining room was cleared in less than sixty seconds.
At a single gesture from Damian, the security team had cleared the restaurant, locking the heavy front doors and forcing the maître d’ and staff into the back office. Saint Lucien was dead quiet, save for the hum of the refrigeration units and the rain beginning to lash against the high glass windows.
Damian stood by the door, his gun drawn but held low at his side. His sharp eyes moved between his father and the waitress standing in the center of the room.
Vittorio had not sat back down. He stood leaning heavily against the table, his chest heaving, staring at Nora as if she were a spirit summoned from the underworld.
"Who are you?" Damian demanded, his voice a low, lethal purr. "Speak quickly, or I put a bullet through your throat."
"Put the gun away, Damian!" Vittorio barked, his voice raw. "You fool! Put it away!"
Damian frowned, though he lowered the weapon slightly. "Father, she spoke in dialect. She threatened you."
"She didn't threaten me," Vittorio whispered, never taking his eyes off Nora. "She named me."
Nora stood calmly, her black uniform now looking less like a maid’s outfit and more like a mourning shroud. Her posture was erect, dignified, carrying an effortless authority that made the expensive room look cheap.
"You grew old, Vittorio," Nora said. Her voice had lost its timid, soft edge. It was smooth, dark, and carried the heavy, rich cadence of the Sicilian mountains. "I expected the man who burned my father’s estate to look larger when I finally saw him again."
Damian’s eyes narrowed. "Her father?"
"The Vespri," Vittorio murmured, his voice trembling. "There were four families in the interior. The old blood. They ruled the mountains before the syndicates were built. When we took the island in '82, we wiped them out. Every brother, every son, every contract." He looked at Nora’s amber eyes. "The House of Valenti."
"Valenti," Damian repeated, the name striking a chord in his memory. "The Valenti estate in Enna. The massacre of eighty-six. There were no survivors."
"There was one," Nora said softly. "A nine-year-old girl hiding beneath the floorboards of the wine press while your father’s men poured gasoline over the beams. I watched through a gap in the wood as Vittorio Bellacasa executed my mother with a silver-plated revolver."
Damian’s body tensed, his thumb flicking the safety off his weapon. "She’s here for revenge."
"If I wanted revenge tonight, Damian," Nora said smoothly, glancing at the young boss, "your father would have died three courses ago. The lobster bisque was poisoned with nightshade extract. I threw it out and replaced it with Mercer’s velvet soup before it reached the table."
Damian’s head snapped toward his father’s untouched bowl.
"Why?" Vittorio whispered, leaning forward, his voice desperate. "Why save me, daughter of Valenti? If you hold the blood oath, why not let me rot?"
"Because death by poison is a coward’s exit," Nora said, stepping closer to the table. "And because you are not the only monster who came to Chicago this week."
Vittorio’s black eyes sharpened. "The council."
"The Donati family made a deal three days ago with your underboss in New York," Nora said, leaning her hands on the table opposite him. "They don't want a peace treaty tonight, Vittorio. They brought six men disguised as city inspectors. They are standing on the roof of this building right now, waiting for the signal to drop tear gas through the ventilation system and wipe out the entire Bellacasa line in one stroke."
Damian pulled out his phone, his thumb rapidly tapping the screen. A second later, his jaw tightened. "The security cameras on the roof just went dark."
Before Damian could move toward the door, a muffled explosion rocked the top floor of the building. The high crystal chandeliers rattled violently, dust falling from the ornate ceiling. The lights flickered, plunged into darkness, and were immediately replaced by the harsh red glow of the emergency backup lighting.
From the hallway outside, the sharp, rhythmic crack of suppressed automatic gunfire echoed through the empty restaurant.
Damian’s men outside the private room were dead before they could call out.
Damian instantly stepped in front of his father, bringing his weapon up toward the mahogany doors. "We're trapped. The alley exit is locked from the outside."
Nora did not panic. She reached behind her back, unpinned her apron, and tossed it onto the table. Beneath it, tucked securely into the high waistband of her trousers, was a sleek, silver-finished Beretta 92FS.
She racked the slide with a clean, practiced motion that belonged to a professional assassin.
"The alley isn't locked," Nora said, her amber eyes reflecting the dark red light of the emergency lamps. "I unlocked it twenty minutes ago. Follow me if you want to live long enough to pay your debt to my house."
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Vittorio looked at the daughter of his oldest enemy, then at his son. A strange, terrifying grin broke across the old man’s lined face.
"The mountain blood," Vittorio laughed softly, picking up his heavy ebony cane. "Lead the way, girl."
