Chapter 17 - The Blood TaxThere is a specific kind of silence that follows a threat against a child. It is not the silence of fear. It is the vacuum of air that occurs just before a nuclear detonation.
Dante moved with a speed that defied human physics. In a fraction of a second, he crossed the room, grabbed Don Vincenzo by the throat, and slammed the older man backward against the mahogany bookshelf. The heavy thud rattled the crystal decanters on the side table. Dante’s pistol was pressed directly beneath Vincenzo’s jaw.
"You breathe my son’s name again," Dante hissed, his voice a demonic, vibrating register of pure executioner, "and I will mail your head back to Palermo in a cardboard box."
Vincenzo choked, his feet dangling an inch off the floor, but a sick, twisted smile remained on his lips. "Kill me, Dante. It changes nothing. The order is given. The old world is coming for you."
"Dante," I commanded, my voice slicing through the room like a scalpel.
Dante didn't move. His finger was tightening on the trigger. He was a micro-pressure away from blowing the emissary’s brains out in our study.
"Dante, drop him," I said, stepping forward, my tone ringing with absolute, freezing authority. "If you kill an emissary of the Commission, you trigger a global war. We will have assassins climbing the glass of this building by midnight. Drop him."
Dante’s chest heaved. He stared into Vincenzo’s mocking eyes for one agonizing second longer before violently hurling the old man onto the floor.
Vincenzo coughed, rubbing his throat as he staggered to his feet. He smoothed the lapels of his camel-hair coat, his eyes flashing with venom. "You take orders from a skirt. You are a disgrace to the bloodline, Dante. Seven days."
He turned and walked out of the study.
The moment the doors clicked shut, Dante turned, slamming his fist into the wall with such force the drywall cracked. "I should have killed him! I should have broken his neck!"
"And then what?" I demanded, walking over to him, grabbing his face with both hands, forcing his furious, pitch-black eyes to meet mine. "You want to fight a street war against the oldest mafia families in the world? You want to turn New York into a warzone while Leo is sleeping one floor down?"
"They threatened my son, Elena!" Dante roared, the primal, territorial father completely unhinged.
"I know!" I shouted back, my own heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I took a deep breath, forcing the terrified mother back into her cage, and letting the CEO out. "They think we are weak because we put on suits. They think legitimate business makes us soft. We aren't going to fight them with guns, Dante."
I walked over to the desk, picking up the bloody silver coin.
"The Commission operates on fear and cash," I said, a dark, terrifying, apocalyptic calculation forming in my mind. "They demand tribute because their actual liquid assets are tied up in ancient, dying supply chains. They don't want you to step down because of tradition, Dante. They want you to step down because Aegis Holdings is making billions, and they aren't getting a cut."
"They want a war of attrition," Silas agreed, stepping forward. "If they shut down our European shipping lanes, our stock will plummet."
"Then we don't play defense," I whispered, dropping the coin into the trash can. I turned to my husband. "Dante, I need you to lock this city down. Put a twenty-man detail on Leo. Nobody breathes in Manhattan without your permission."
"And what are you going to do?" Dante asked, his breathing slowing, hypnotized by the lethal fire in my eyes.
"I am going to do what I do best," I smiled—a cold, razor-sharp expression that promised absolute ruin. "I’m going to hostile-takeover the Italian Mafia."
By 8:00 AM the next morning, the top floor of Aegis Holdings was a militarized financial bunker. I sat at the head of the glass conference table, surrounded by my top forensic accountants, cyber-warfare specialists, and Matteo, who was coordinating the street-level defense.
"The Commission hides their money in a labyrinth of sovereign wealth funds and Swiss holding companies," I explained, projecting a massive, encrypted web onto the smart-board. "They think they are invisible. But old money leaves a heavy footprint. I want every shell company, every corrupted bank, and every real estate trust tied to Palermo identified by midnight."
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"Elena, we’re talking about breaching the financial firewall of the global underworld," my lead cyber-tech warned, sweating profusely. "If they catch us pinging their servers, they will retaliate."
"Let them," I said coldly. "Find the money. Because tomorrow, we are going to Geneva."
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