Chapter 6 - Shadows on Federal Hill
Nico Falcone sat in the VIP booth of The Black Rose, his flagship nightclub on Atwells Avenue, sipping twelve-year-old scotch.
The club was booming. Heavy bass vibrated through the floorboards, neon lights flashed red and purple across the velvet walls, and six of his senior captains sat around the table, laughing and counting stacks of cash.
At 8:22 p.m., Falcone's phone buzzed on the dark mahogany table.
He picked it up, pressing it to his ear. "Speak."
"It's done, boss," the voice of his informant at the Providence County Coroner’s office rasped over the line. "Ambulance just left Greenwich Estate under escort. Castellane died in the back seat. Cardiac arrest. The amaretto cream did the job."
Falcone let out a long, slow breath. A cruel, triumphant grin spread across his face, exposing his white, capped teeth.
"You're sure?" Falcone demanded.
"Identified the body myself, Nico," the informant confirmed. "Julian Castellane is stone-cold dead."
Falcone hung up the phone and slammed his glass onto the table, standing up. The entire VIP section went quiet.
"Gentlemen," Falcone announced, his eyes glittering with ruthless ambition. "Julian Castellane is dead. His heart gave out an hour ago."
Cheering erupted from his captains. Men stood up, slapping each other on the back, pouring fresh shots of liquor.
"What about the baker girl?" scar-faced enforcer asked, leaning in. "Do we burn the shop now?"
Falcone waved his hand dismissively. "No need. If she made the cake, she’s too terrified to ever open her mouth. Send two men to secure the Castellane docks on the river. I want every shipping manifest under my name before the sun comes up."
Falcone raised his crystal glass high into the air. "To Providence! To the new king!"
"To the king!" his men bellowed in unison.
Meanwhile, seven miles away, inside the subterranean reinforced bunker beneath Greenwich Estate, Maeve sat on a leather sofa, watching a bank of security monitors.
Julian stood behind her, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder. His grip was warm, reassuring, an unbroken tether connecting her to the real world while war brewed outside.
"He took it," Marcus reported over the wall intercom. "Falcone has summoned all twelve of his borough lieutenants to The Black Rose. They are throwing a victory party right now."
Julian’s hand tightened slightly on Maeve’s shoulder.
"Assemble the strike team," Julian commanded into the speaker, his voice as cold as absolute zero. "Four armored vans. We take the front and back entrances simultaneously. Leave no exits unguarded."
Maeve turned her head, looking up at Julian. He was wearing a dark tactical vest over his black shirt, a silenced pistol holstered securely at his chest. He looked lethal, magnificent, and entirely terrifying.
"Be careful," Maeve whispered, reaching up to touch his forearm.
May you like
Julian looked down at her. The lethal coldness in his eyes melted away, replaced by an intense, burning devotion. He leaned down, pressing his lips firmly against hers in a brief, possessive kiss that left her breathless.
"Wait for me here, Maeve," Julian murmured against her mouth. "When I return, Federal Hill will be yours again."
