Chapter 9 - The Execution of the Traitor
The silence that followed Falcone’s fall was absolute.
The freezing morning air rushed through the massive jagged opening in the penthouse wall, billowing the ruined silk curtains and clearing the lingering stench of cordite from the room.
I stood at the edge of the void for a moment, watching the gray mist swirl over the city below.
Then, I turned around.
Carlo had collapsed to his knees near the stairs, his strength completely spent.
I dropped my weapon, rushed across the mezzanine, and fell to my knees beside him, wrapping my arms tightly around his battered torso.
He hissed in pain as his broken ribs compressed, but his trembling arms wrapped around my neck, pulling me so close that I could feel the violent, ragged beat of his heart against my cheek.
"I thought you were dead," Carlo sobbed against my hair, his tears hot and heavy against my skin.
"Frank's car... they said the car was destroyed... I thought I killed you, Bianca..."
"You couldn't kill me if you tried, you stubborn bastard," I whispered, crying freely now, burying my face in the curve of his bloody neck.
"You lied to me."
"You threw my clothes on the floor and called me a liability."
Carlo pulled back slightly, his bruised face contorted with overwhelming guilt and love.
"I had to make you run," he whispered, his hands trembling as he cupped my cheeks, tracing the cut on my temple.
"I knew what Falcone would do to you."
"I couldn't let them touch you, Bianca."
"I would have burned in hell for eternity if it meant you had a chance to live."
"Next time," I said, kissing his split lips fiercely, tasting the salt of our tears and the iron of his blood, "we burn them together."
Downstairs, the heavy footsteps of Sal’s men approached the base of the mezzanine staircase.
Sal stepped forward, dragging a sniveling, half-conscious Mateo by the collar of his ruined coat.
"Boss," Sal called out, looking up at Carlo with deep respect.
"We rounded up the last of the New York clean-up crew in the garage."
"And we have the snake who opened the garden gate."
Carlo’s expression transformed instantly.
The tender, weeping husband vanished, replaced once more by the sovereign Don of the Midwest.
Leaning on my shoulder for support, Carlo forced himself to stand.
Step by step, we descended the stairs together, side by side, sovereign and queen returning to their throne room.
Mateo looked up from the floor, his face pale and swollen, weeping hysterically.
"Carlo! Boss! Please! They threatened my family! Falcone was going to wipe out my whole bloodline!"
Carlo stopped two feet from the kneeling traitor.
He did not raise his voice.
He did not show anger.
He simply looked down at Mateo as if he were an insect that had crawled onto his shoe.
"You sat at my table, Mateo," Carlo said quietly.
"You ate my wife’s food."
"You smiled at her while taking thirty pieces of silver to turn off the security grid."
"My family was your family," Mateo cried, clawing at Carlo’s trousers.
"Have mercy, Carlo! For the years we bled together!"
Carlo looked down at me, his eyes questioning.
He was giving the judgment to me.
This was no longer just his empire.
I reached down, pulled the spare revolver from Sal’s belt, and pressed the cold steel into Carlo’s bruised right hand.
"A kingdom cannot stand," I said softly, "with rot in the foundation."
Carlo wrapped his fingers around the grip, leveled the barrel at Mateo’s forehead, and pulled the trigger without blinking.
The traitor slumped forward onto the ruined carpet, motionless.
"Sal," Carlo ordered, lowering the weapon.
"Call the municipal crews."
"Clear the building."
"Secure the docks."
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"Tell the Commission in New York that if they ever send another butcher past the Indiana border, I will send them back in fifty-five-gallon drums."
"Yes, Boss," Sal replied, gesturing for his men to drag the bodies away.
