Chapter 7: Blood and Boardrooms
The iron security gates of Falcone’s suburban estate swung open automatically as the town car approached, the headlights sweeping across manicured boxwood hedges and sprawling stone facades. We didn't use the front entrance; Falcone steered the car directly into the subterranean garage beneath the east wing. The air down here smelled of polished leather, ozone, and expensive motor oil. Three other black luxury sedans were already parked in their designated stalls, their engines ticking as they cooled.
When we stepped out into the bright fluorescent glare of the garage, two senior capos—men in expensive, tailored suits with graying temples and cold, calculating eyes—were waiting by the elevator bank. Their expressions shifted from professional deference to outright hostility when they saw me standing beside their boss, soaked through and carrying a scorched leather ledger under my arm.
"Don Falcone," the taller one, a veteran named Moretti, said, stepping forward. "We didn't expect you back tonight. And certainly not with... unauthorized personnel."
Falcone didn't break stride. He stepped between Moretti and me, his posture radiating an absolute, predatory authority that brooked no argument. "Watch your tone, Moretti. This is Audrey Sincel. She is my blood, and as of tonight, she has full executive rights within this house."
Moretti’s gaze flicked to me, taking in my damp clothes and the dirt on my hands before returning to Falcone with a thin, skeptical smile. "Blood lines are complicated business, Boss. Especially when old debts from the Bellandi era start crawling out of the woodwork. The board won't look kindly on opening closed books."
"The board can answer to me in the morning," Falcone replied, his voice dropping an octave into a low, menacing register that made Moretti step back half a step. "Now, clear the hall."
The capos exchanged a dark, lingering look before turning toward the interior stairwell, their polished shoes clicking against the concrete floor. Falcone hit the private elevator call button, sliding a brass keycard into the security slot. The heavy steel doors slid open instantly, revealing a private wood-paneled cab that carried us upward past the residential suites straight into Falcone’s private study on the top floor.
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The room was vast, dominated by a heavy mahogany desk, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and a massive walk-in wall safe hidden behind a framed oil painting of the harbor. Falcone tossed his suit jacket over the back of a leather chair and turned to me, his expression grim.
"You wanted the truth about your mother," Falcone said, walking over to the hidden wall safe and spinning the heavy combination dial. "Here it is."
