Chapter 9 - The Godfather's Ledger
“Frankie,” Gabriel said.
His voice didn't waver. He didn't raise his submachine gun; with four rifles zeroed on his chest at ten paces, any movement meant instant death. He stood completely still, his body subtly shifting half a step to the left to block Chloe and his mother from Frankie’s line of fire.
“Put the gun down, Gabe,” Frankie said, his tone gentle, almost mournful, like a priest delivering bad news to a parishioner. “It’s over. The south gate is taken. Your perimeter guards are either dead or on my payroll. Santoro has three hundred men moving into the Brooklyn yards right now. By sunrise, the Costello name is history.”
Gabriel’s eyes dropped to the nickel-plated .45 in his godfather’s hand. “You held me at the baptismal font, Frankie. You swore to my father you’d protect this family.”
Frankie let out a weary, gravelly sigh. “Your father was a romantic, Gabe. He thought honor bought bread. He thought loyalty paid the dockworkers. When he got shot on that stoop, you know who paid his funeral expenses? Me. You know who kept the Santoros from wiping you and your brothers out when you were still in middle school? Me.”
Frankie took a slow step forward, the leather of his oxfords crunching softly on the concrete.
“I built this city’s docks,” Frankie continued, his eyes hardening into flint. “I spent thirty years breaking heads and paying off judges so you could sit in an executive office and pretend to be a legitimate businessman. And then you decided to clean up the port. You wanted to cut out the narcotics. You wanted to cut out the human trafficking.”
“Those were women and children, Frankie!” Gabriel snarled, his composure finally cracking into pure, unfiltered rage. “You were smuggling teenage girls through the Red Hook terminals!”
“I was making thirty million dollars a quarter!” Frankie roared, his silver hair shaking with sudden fury. “Money doesn't have a conscience, Gabriel! And neither do I!”
Behind Gabriel, Beatrice’s hands were moving.
She wasn't looking at Frankie. She was looking at Chloe, her fingers moving in short, jerky, frantic rhythms against the folds of her skirt:
The light switch. The red breaker behind your left foot.
Chloe’s eyes flicked downward.
Set into the base of the wine rack was an industrial emergency shutoff lever—a heavy red handle designed to cut all auxiliary battery power to the cellar in case of an electrical fire.
Kill the light, Beatrice signed, her gaze boring into Chloe’s soul with terrifying clarity. Gabriel has his night sights.
Chloe’s heart slammed against her throat. If she moved, the four riflemen would cut her in half.
Frankie stepped closer, his weapon raising until it was level with Gabriel’s nose. “Give me the ledger, Gabe. Let your mother live out the rest of her days in a convent in Naples. I’ll even let the little waitress walk. Just hand over the book.”
Gabriel’s fingers tightened on the leather-bound diary in his hand. “My father wrote down every payoff you took from the Santoros since 1985, didn't he? He knew you were going to kill him.”
“Your father was too slow,” Frankie whispered. “Just like you.”
NOW! Beatrice’s hands snapped.
Chloe didn't hesitate. She threw her entire body weight to the left, kicking her heel hard against the heavy red emergency lever.
The breaker snapped down with a metallic CLANG.
The red backup lights died instantly.
The cellar plunged into absolute, impenetrable blackness.
“FIRE!” Frankie screamed.
Muzzle flashes erupted in the darkness like strobe lights, deafening cracks echoing off the concrete walls.
In that same split second, Gabriel dropped to his knees. The green tritium night sights of his weapon glowed in the gloom.
He didn't fire wildly. He fired in three smooth, terrifyingly rhythmic beats: Double-tap. Double-tap. Double-tap.
Screams of agony tore through the dark. Rifles clattered against the stone floor.
Chloe scrambled on hands and knees, pulling Beatrice behind the heavy marble credenza as ricochets whined off the stone above their heads.
When the shooting stopped, the only sound left in the cellar was the frantic, choking gasps of a dying man.
A flare hissed to life.
Gabriel stood in the center of the room, holding an emergency road flare that bathed the entire cellar in a flickering, bloody crimson glow.
The four riflemen lay dead on the floor.
Frankie Varga was pinned against a wine rack, his cashmere coat shredded, three bullet holes bleeding heavily through his chest. His nickel-plated gun lay four feet away, slick with his own blood.
Gabriel walked over, his heavy boot coming down on Frankie’s wrist, shattering the bone with a cold, deliberate snap.
Frankie cried out, coughing up dark blood onto his silk tie. “Gabe... please... we’re family...”
Gabriel looked down at him with eyes that were completely dead.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the cassette tape from his father’s safe, and dropped it onto Frankie’s bleeding chest.
“You’re not family, Frankie,” Gabriel said softly. “You’re just a debt that took twenty-seven years to collect.”
He raised his weapon.
A hand caught his sleeve.
Beatrice stood beside him. Her face was illuminated by the harsh red flare, her white hair glowing like silver wire.
She looked down at the dying man who had ordered her husband’s murder, and then she raised her hands.
She didn't sign for mercy. She didn't sign for revenge.
May you like
She signed three words, cold and absolute:
Burn it all.
