Chapter 8 - The Cleansing
Rocco didn't pull a gun. In a house like the Bianchi estate, loud gunshots in the dining room were uncouth and messy.
Instead, Rocco stood up slowly from his chair, reached beneath the table, and pulled out a heavy, three-foot length of braided industrial steel wire with two wooden handles attached to the ends—a garrote.
Mario saw the wire and let out a strangled, terrifying scream of panic. He scrambled backward out of his chair, knocking over his crystal wine glass, which shattered loudly against the floor, spilling dark red wine across the white rug like fresh blood.
He turned toward the grand double doors, intending to bolt into the hallway, but the doors swung open, blocking his escape. Standing in the doorway were Paulie and Frankie, their broad frames completely sealing the exit.
Paulie grabbed Mario by his silk tie, yanking him back into the room with brutal, effortless force, throwing him onto his knees in front of the fireplace.
"Salvatore! Please! I have money! I'll give you the offshore accounts! I'll leave the country! I'll go to Sicily!" Mario wept, crawling across the floor toward his nephew's feet, his polished hair completely falling apart. "Don't kill me! Please, by the memory of your father!"
Salvatore didn't even look down at him. He took another slow sip of his water, his face completely devoid of mercy.
Rocco stepped up behind the kneeling man. With one swift, practiced, terrifyingly efficient movement, he looped the steel wire over Mario's head, crossed his wrists, and pulled tight.
Mario's voice was instantly cut off into a sharp, choking gasp. His hands flew up, clawing frantically at the wire digging deep into his neck, his legs thrashing wildly against the rug. His gold Rolex watch scratched uselessly against the marble hearth.
Amara stood by the sideboard, watching the execution unfold. She didn't look away, she didn't scream, and she didn't faint. She had spent her life watching the cold, unyielding laws of cause and effect play out in the dark places of the city. In the garment factories, if a worker stole fabric, their hands were crushed. In the underworld, if a leader betrayed his blood, his life was choked out on a Persian rug. It was a brutal, terrifying harmony, but it was a harmony nonetheless.
After two long, agonizing minutes, Mario's thrashing slowed, then stopped completely. His arms collapsed limply to his sides, his head slumping forward against his chest.
Rocco released his grip on the wooden handles. The wire snapped back, leaving a thin, deep, dark purple mark around Mario's neck. Rocco wiped his hands with a cloth napkin from the table and looked at Salvatore.
"It's done, Boss," Rocco said softly.
"Clean the room," Salvatore ordered flatly. "Take him down to the docks. Put him in a concrete barrel and drop him twenty miles out into the trench where the fish can eat his lies. Then assemble all the capos in the grand hall at midnight. It's time to clean out the rest of Uncle Mario's loyalists."
Paulie and Frankie picked up the heavy body by the arms and legs, wrapping it in a canvas tarpaulin, and quietly carried it out through the service exit.
Rocco turned to Amara, who was quietly picking up the shattered glass from the floor with a whisk broom and dustpan.
"Amara," Rocco said gently. "You don't have to clean that up. The staff will take care of it."
Amara looked up at the underboss, setting a large shard of red-stained crystal into the pan. "It's my job to clean up mess, Mr. Rocco. But from now on, I make sure the mess doesn't happen in the first place."
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Salvatore looked at her from the head of the table, a dark, approving glint flashing in his obsidian eyes.
"Rocco," Salvatore said. "Give her Mario's private office on the second floor. Equip it with whatever computers, security monitors, and analysis equipment she asks for. She reports directly to you and me. Anyone in this house who disrespects her orders answers to my gun."
