THE MAFIA DON'S WRATH: RIPPED COVERS AND DEADLY SECRETS

Salvatore Falcone’s composure finally shattered. The veteran don strained against the zip-ties binding his wrists, his face purple with rage and desperation.

“Vincent, listen to reason!” Falcone barked, his voice cracking with panic. “Your father was old! He was losing his grip on the docks! Chicago was falling behind New York and Miami! I did what had to be done for the survival of the families! If you kill me here, under your own roof, you violate the ancient sanctuary laws! Every boss in the country will hunt you down! You’ll be an outlaw!”

Vincent walked slowly over to the mahogany bar in the corner of the study. He pulled a crystal decanter of vintage red wine from the shelf—the same vintage Carmine had loved—and set three heavy crystal glasses onto the polished wood.

He poured the dark, rich liquid until all three glasses were three-quarters full.

“Ancient sanctuary laws?” Vincent asked without turning around. “Did you think about sanctuary laws when you sent a sixteen-year-old girl to put rat poison into my father’s evening wine? Did you think about sanctuary laws when you ordered my convoy blown apart in Queens? Did you think about sanctuary laws when you watched my mother being forced to sleep on a concrete floor in her own house?”

Vincent picked up the antique wooden box that Emily had retrieved from Richard’s study. He clicked it open.

Inside were the three amber glass vials of Thallium Sulfate.

Vincent uncorked the first vial. With a steady hand, he tipped the clear, odorless liquid into the first glass of wine. Then he opened the second vial, emptying it completely into the second glass. Finally, he emptied the third vial into the third glass.

The room went completely, horrifyingly still.

Vanessa’s eyes bulged in pure, unadulterated terror. She began hyperventilating, pressing herself flat against the floor, her fingers clawing at the thick wool rug. “No… no, Vincent, please… God, please don’t… Vincent, I’m begging you! I’ll leave the country! I’ll disappear! You’ll never see my face again!”

Vincent picked up the first glass of poisoned wine.

He walked over to his brother, Richard.

Richard was crying like a child now, tears and snot running freely down his swollen face. “Vincent, please… we’re brothers. We share the same blood! Remember when we were kids? Remember when I pulled you out of the lake when you couldn't swim? You can’t do this to your own brother! Mom! Tell him! Mom, please don’t let him kill me!”

Margaret sat in the leather armchair. She looked at Richard—the boy she had carried for nine months, the boy she had nursed, the boy she had protected from Carmine’s harsh temper when he was young. Her eyes were filled with an infinite, heartbreaking sorrow.

“You stopped being my son,” Margaret whispered, her voice barely audible, “the night you locked that cellar door and told me you wished I had died with your father.”

She slowly turned her face away, staring into the dark corner of the room.

Vincent held the glass of wine inches from Richard’s lips.

“Drink it,” Vincent whispered.

“No! I won’t! You can’t make me!” Richard thrashed violently against the chair, turning his head away.

Vincent didn't force it down his throat. Instead, he pulled the glass back, his expression entirely devoid of emotion.

“You’re right,” Vincent said softly. “You share Carmine Moretti’s blood. And as rotten as that blood has become, I will not force you to drink the poison you gave our father.”

Richard let out a ragged, disbelieving sob of relief. “Thank you… thank you, Vincent… thank you—”

“You won’t die by poison, Richard,” Vincent interrupted, his voice dropping into a register colder than outer space. “You’ll live. You will live a very, very long time.”

Vincent turned to Marco, who stood silently by the door.

“Strip him,” Vincent commanded. “Take his watch, his shoes, his wallet, and every identification document he possesses. Drive him out to the industrial wasteland across the Indiana border. Dump him in the rail yards with fifty dollars in his pocket. If he ever sets foot inside the state of Illinois again, put a bullet through his kneecaps and leave him for the crows. Let him spend the rest of his miserable life begging for scraps from the people he used to look down on.”

Richard’s face went completely blank with horror. For a man who had never worked a day of manual labor in his life, who couldn't survive without luxury, high-end drugs, and five-star hotels, this was a fate far more terrifying than a quick bullet to the head.

Two guards immediately stepped forward, untying Richard from the chair and dragging him kicking and screaming toward the private back elevator.

“Vincent! No! Kill me instead! Vincent, please!” Richard’s shrieks echoed down the hallway until the heavy steel doors slammed shut, cutting off the noise completely.

Then, Vincent turned his eyes toward Salvatore Falcone and Vanessa DeLuca.

The temperature in the study seemed to drop ten degrees.