Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Westchester
The Valenti estate in Westchester was a fortress of stone and wrought iron, surrounded by acres of manicured lawns that were now drowned in autumn mud. I didn't wait for the security guards to open the heavy oak doors of the main house; I kicked them open, my boots leaving wet tracks across the antique Persian rugs.
My father, Vittorio Valenti, sat in his favorite leather armchair by the massive stone fireplace in the library. At seventy-five, his hair was as white as ash, but his eyes—those same black-and-gold eyes—were still sharp with malice. He was sipping espresso, an open ledger on his lap.
"You enter your father's house like a thief, Dominic," he said, not even looking up from his book. "Has power made you forget your manners?"
"Dr. Rossi," I said, the name dropping between us like a live grenade.
Vittorio paused, his fingers freezing on the edge of the page. Slowly, he closed the ledger and set it on the table beside his cup. He looked at me, his expression perfectly unreadable. "A good doctor. High reputation in Lombardy."
"He was expensive, wasn't he?" I stepped into the light of the fire, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. "A villa in Lake Como costs a lot of money, even for a surgeon. How much did it cost to buy a fake diagnosis, Dad? How much did it cost to make me believe my wife was hollow?"
Vittorio sighed, a dry, raspy sound that made me want to tear the room apart. He stood up, using a silver-handled cane to steady himself, though I knew he didn't really need it. He was a man who performed weakness when it suited him.
"You were soft, Dominic," Vittorio said, his voice flat and devoid of regret. "You were obsessed with that girl. The Vance family... they are clean money. They look down on us. They think because they have law degrees, they don't have blood on their hands. You were letting her soften your edges. We were on the verge of a war with the Marcones, and I needed a Don who could cut a throat without looking back."
"She was pregnant," I roared, the sound tearing from my chest, echoing off the high book-lined walls. "She was carrying my daughter! Your granddaughter!"
Vittorio stopped, his eyes narrowing slightly. For a fraction of a second, I saw a flicker of surprise cross his old face, but he masked it instantly with a sneer. "A daughter? A girl? What use is a girl to the Valenti line? We needed an alliance, Dominic. Beatrice Marcone gave us three ports in the north before she died of her fever. That alliance saved our operations."
"You built your operations on a graveyard of my life," I said, stepping directly into his space, ignoring the traditional respect that had been beaten into me since childhood. "I am the Don now, Vittorio. You surrendered the ring three years ago."
"I made you the Don," he hissed, his old fingers gripping his cane until his knuckles turned white. "And I can unmake you."
"Try it," I whispered, my voice dropping to a deadly chill that made him blink. "Every captain in New York answers to me now. Every dollar that flows through the docks carries my signature. You are an old man living in a house that I pay for. From this moment on, you do not leave this estate. If you speak to a single associate, if you pass a single note to the outside world, I will strip this house bare and leave you to rot in the dark."
May you like
I turned on my heel and walked out of the library, the sound of his cane slamming against the floor behind me fading as I crossed the threshold.
In the hallway, Marco was waiting, his phone in hand. "Dominic, we have a problem. Elena and Julian just checked into a private residence in Brooklyn. But they aren't alone. The Marcone family just put a detail on the property. It looks like Beatrice's brother, Silvio, knows she's back."
