Chapter 9 - The Reckoning of the Falcones
By five in the morning, the rain had stopped, leaving the Providence hills covered in a thick, white ground fog that smelled of wet earth and spent sulfur.
The Lombardi syndicate’s three Suburbans were gone—or rather, they were parked in the deep ravine behind the estate, their license plates removed and their interiors stripped by Adriano’s cleanup crews.
Adriano sat in the rear of a black armored limousine, his face clean of dust but his eyes completely bloodshot. Frank sat opposite him, holding a satellite phone that was linked to the private residence of the Commission Chairman in Manhattan.
“The Lombardi faction is exposed, boss,” Frank said, his voice flat. “Lorenzo sent twelve of his best men up here and none of them answered the morning check-in. The other families in New York—the Lucchese, the Genovese—they’re already moving on his policy wheels in Brooklyn. They know he’s weak. They know he broke the northern treaty for a personal grudge.”
Adriano looked out the dark window as the limo cruised down Route 95, heading south toward New York. “Lorenzo Lombardi thinks he belongs to the old era where a name was enough to protect a criminal. He forgot that a name is only as strong as the concrete beneath it.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, dented silver watch. He traced the initials T.H. with his thumb.
“We don't negotiate with them, Frank. We don't sign another treaty. I want the Lombardi assets liquidated by noon. Every warehouse they own in Newark, every shipping container they have under the bridge—transfer the deeds to the Hail Trust Fund. If Lorenzo wants to keep his house in Queens, he can pay rent to Thomas’s daughter.”
The limousine arrived at the Lombardi social club in Queens by nine in the morning. The street was empty, the local shopkeepers having already closed their metal shutters when they saw the Providence plates arrive.
Adriano stepped out of the car alone. He didn't carry a shotgun today; he wore a long, dark cashmere coat that covered his vest, his hands tucked into his pockets as he walked through the front door of the Paradiso lounge.
Lorenzo Lombardi sat behind his mahogany desk, looking twenty years older than he had the previous night. His cigar had burned down to the ash, and his yellowed eyes were fixed on the television screen in the corner, which was showing a breaking news report about a massive federal raid on his family’s shipping terminals in New Jersey.
Genevieve stood by the window, her face completely white, her hands trembling as she held a glass of brandy.
“Adriano...” Lorenzo rumbled, his voice losing its stones-in-a-bucket rasp, sounding instead like a dry leaf scraping against concrete. “Silvio didn't call.”
“Silvio is at the bottom of my pool, Lorenzo,” Adriano said, walking over to the desk and sitting down in the leather chair opposite the old man. He didn't take off his coat. He didn't pull his weapon. He simply placed a single, blue leather folder on the mahogany surface. “And your family assets in the northern district are gone. The Commission approved the transfer two hours ago. They don't like bosses who lose twelve soldiers in a single night over a maid.”
Genevieve turned from the window, her voice rising in a desperate, ugly shriek. “You can’t do this! That money belongs to our family! My grandfather built those terminals!”
Adriano finally looked at her. The sheer, unadulterated coldness in his ice-dark eyes made her step back until her spine hit the glass.
“Your grandfather built them with blood, Genevieve,” Adriano said softly. “And they are being cleared with honor. You wanted Rebecca Hail to live in the trash cans, remember? Well, as of nine o'clock this morning, the apartment building you own on Park Avenue belongs to her. You have until five o'clock to move your clothes into the service locker in the basement.”
Lorenzo Lombardi looked down at the blue folder, his old, leathered hand shaking as he touched the signature line where the Commission Chairman had already stamped his seal. He looked up at Adriano, a strange, bitter respect appearing in his yellowed eyes.
“You’re a wolf after all, Falcone,” the old man whispered. “Your father would have been proud of this layout.”
May you like
“My father would have killed the woman to save the docks, Lorenzo,” Adriano said, standing up and buttoning his dark cashmere coat. “I kept the woman and took the docks anyway. That’s the difference between his family and mine.”
He turned his back on them and walked out into the bright, cold September sunshine, leaving the old empire to turn to dust behind him.
