Chapter 3 - The Gates of Long Island
The rain had started around one in the morning, slicking the long, winding asphalt driveway of the Valenti estate.
Down at the main gates—a massive structure of wrought iron flanked by stone pillars twelve feet high—three black Cadillacs sat idling in the dark, their headlights cutting bright white beams through the falling rain.
Adrian stepped out onto the gravel courtyard wearing a heavy, full-length leather coat. In his right hand, he carried a black military-grade assault rifle, held casually at his side as if it were an umbrella. Marco and twelve heavily armed Valenti guards moved into tactical positions behind the stone balustrades, their laser sights painting red dots across the hoods of the idling SUVs.
Rex stood beside Adrian, his wet fur glistening under the security floodlights, his teeth bared in a silent, savage grin.
The driver’s door of the lead Cadillac opened.
A tall man in an expensive camel-hair coat stepped out holding an umbrella. It was Dominic Falcone—the younger brother of Don Carmine Falcone, and the man who had personally overseen the execution of Elena’s husband two years ago.
“Adrian!” Dominic shouted over the sound of the rain and idling engines. “You’re making a mess out of a simple courtesy call!”
“You broke my gate, Dominic,” Adrian called back, his voice effortless, carrying across the eighty yards of open driveway like thunder. “That iron was forged in Turin in nineteen-twenty. It costs more than your life.”
Dominic laughed, though he didn't step past the threshold of the broken gate. “I’m here for company business, Valenti! We know she’s in there!”
“Who?”
“Don't play cute with me!” Dominic spat, his polite demeanor slipping into jagged threat. “Elena Brooks! Marcus’s widow! She took something from Marcus’s safe-deposit box before his car went up in flames! A ledger with our offshore routing numbers! We’ve been hunting that bitch for two years!”
Behind the stone pillar, Marco looked at Adrian. Adrian’s face remained completely impassive.
“She works for me, Dominic,” Adrian said coolly. “She cleans my silver. She doesn't carry ledgers.”
“We tracked her through a domestic employment agency!” Dominic insisted, taking one small step forward. “Her name flagged in our system six hours ago! Give her to us, Adrian! She’s Falcone property! You give us the girl and her brat, and we leave your iron gates in peace!”
Adrian slowly raised the barrel of his rifle.
The red laser dot from his scope moved up Dominic’s camel-hair coat, stopping precisely over the center of the man's throat.
“You have three mistakes in that sentence, Dominic,” Adrian said softly, his voice cutting through the storm with absolute, terrifying clarity.
Dominic froze, his smile dying.
“First,” Adrian began, “nobody is 'property' on this side of the county line. Second, Marcus Brooks died because he was careless, which means whatever he left behind is trash. Third...”
Adrian took three slow, deliberate steps forward into the rain, his boots crushing the gravel.
“...you used the word 'brat' when referring to a child living under my roof.”
“Adrian, be reasonable!” Dominic yelled, his hand twitching toward his waist. “You want to start a syndicate war over a maid? Over a dead rat’s kid? The commission will tear you apart!”
“The commission doesn't run Long Island,” Adrian replied. “I do.”
Adrian didn't wait for Dominic to draw his weapon. He brought his foot down heavily on the wet stone, signaling Marco.
BANG!
A high-caliber sniper round from the estate roof blew through the front windshield of the lead Cadillac, shattering the engine block in a shower of sparks and black smoke.
Dominic scrambled backward into the mud, screaming curses as his security guards pulled him back into the second SUV.
“You’re dead, Valenti!” Dominic screamed through the open window as the driver slammed the vehicle into reverse, tires spinning wildly against the gravel. “Carmine will bring eighty men to your front door by sunrise!”
“Tell Carmine to bring ninety!” Adrian roared into the night. “It will save me the trouble of hunting them down in the city!”
The three SUVs backed out through the shattered gates, turning sharply into the darkness, their red taillights disappearing down the coastal highway.
Adrian lowered his rifle. The rain soaked through his hair, dripping off his jawline.
Marco ran up beside him, his face dark with concern. “Boss... he’s right. Carmine Falcone won't let this go. If Elena really has a ledger—”
“She doesn't have a ledger,” Adrian cut him off sharply. “If she had a ledger with offshore bank accounts, she wouldn't be scrubbing my floorboards for sixteen dollars an hour to buy her kid a three-dollar stuffed animal.”
Adrian turned, looking up toward the second-floor windows of the West Wing.
A small, shadows-shrouded figure was standing by the glass. A tiny hand was pressed against the window pane.
“They didn't come for a ledger, Marco,” Adrian murmured, watching the small outline of Mia Brooks. “They came to erase a witness to Marcus’s death. And they thought I would let them have her because she was nobody.”
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He handed his rifle to Marco.
“Call the captains,” Adrian ordered, his eyes cold and burning with a dark, ancient fire. “Tell them the Valenti family is mobilising.”
