Chapter 2 - The Fox in the Library
Lorenzo walked down the vaulted corridor toward the east wing of the estate, each measured step echoing against the imported travertine marble. Tony shadowed him two paces behind, his right hand resting casually inside his jacket, inches from his custom Kimber .45. The mansion was operating under complete blackout protocols: heavy velvet drapes drawn over every window, exterior floodlights turned off, and armed men stationed every ten yards.
Lorenzo pushed open the heavy mahogany doors of the library without knocking.
Marco Beluchcci was seated behind an antique leather-topped desk, surrounded by stacks of printed manifests, maintenance logs, and a half-empty glass of vintage Barolo. When Lorenzo entered, Marco jumped slightly, quickly turning over a yellow legal pad he had been scribbling on.
“Lorenzo!” Marco stood up quickly, forcing a warm, relieved smile across his face while straightening his silk tie. “Thank God you're resting. I was just going through the mechanics' logs from the Brooklyn garage. It looks like the maintenance crew took the lead SUV in for an unscheduled brake inspection forty-eight hours ago. If someone slipped an explosive charge onto the chassis, that was the window.”
“Is that so?” Lorenzo said evenly, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling glass case displaying antique firearms. He didn't look at Marco; he looked at his cousin's reflection in the glass. “Daniel Cross told me his men found a copy of the route sheet and a burner phone inside Elena Carter’s quarters.”
Marco shook his head with an exaggerated sigh of disgust. “I heard. It’s sickening, Lorenzo. An employee you took in out of charity after her husband passed away, giving her and her daughter a roof over their heads. It just proves that you can never trust outsiders. You pay them an honest wage, and the moment a rival syndicate waves an envelope of cash, they sell your head on a platter. You should let Daniel take her to the basement garage for a real interrogation. She’ll talk in ten minutes.”
Lorenzo turned slowly, his dark eyes fixing onto his cousin with the weight of a hydraulic press. “Elena’s daughter was playing outside near the east fountain when the device was placed under my vehicle, Marco. She saw the man.”
Marco’s smile wavered for a fraction of a second, his pupils contracting. “The little girl? Come on, Lorenzo. She’s six years old. She probably saw a stray cat or one of the groundskeepers raking leaves and panicked. You can't base organizational decisions on the imagination of a frightened child.”
“She described his coat,” Lorenzo said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “She described the buttons. Red lacquer. One was missing from the chest.”
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Marco’s hand went instinctively to his lapel, freezing midway before he pulled it back and cleared his throat. “Lots of coats have decorative buttons, Enzo. Don't let paranoia ruin our judgment. We have to prepare for the fallout. The other New York families think you stood them up at the summit. If we don't project absolute strength right now, they’ll launch a full-scale offensive across the five boroughs.”
“Strength comes from loyalty, Marco,” Lorenzo replied, walking toward the door. “And disloyalty always leaves a blood trail. Keep digging into those garage records. I want to see every receipt.”
