Chapter 7 - The Ghost of the King
Vincent stared at the man he had personally buried five years ago.
Carlo Martini looked older, his hair completely white, but his eyes were just as ruthless.
"You look like you have seen a ghost, Vincent," Carlo mocked smoothly.
Agent Carter drew his weapon, aiming it directly at the old mafia boss.
"Put the book down, Carlo," the federal agent commanded.
Carlo didn't even flinch.
He casually tossed the heavy ledger onto a glass coffee table.
"You can have it, Agent Carter."
"It is completely useless now."
"I drained every account and burned every bridge inside that book three days ago."
Vincent took a shaky step forward, his chest burning with agony.
"You faked your own death," Vincent realized aloud.
"Why?"
Carlo poured himself a glass of scotch from the crystal decanter on the bar.
"Because you were becoming soft, Vincent."
"You wanted to turn our empire into a legitimate logistics company."
"You forgot that we are wolves, not sheep."
The old man took a slow sip of his drink.
"I needed to step away so the ambitious men in your crew would expose themselves."
"I needed to see who would betray you."
Vincent’s blood ran colder than the winter wind outside.
"Rico didn't orchestrate tonight's assassination attempt."
"You did."
Carlo smiled proudly.
"I ordered Rico to shoot you, yes."
"It was the only way to finally purge the weakness from this family."
He looked at Mary with profound disgust.
"And I see the greatest weakness of all has returned from the grave."
Carlo snapped his fingers loudly.
The shadows of the penthouse suddenly moved.
Six heavily armed men stepped out from the hallways, aiming assault rifles at Vincent, Mary, and Carter.
"Kill them all," Carlo ordered his loyal soldiers.
"Burn the bodies in the incinerator."
The men raised their weapons, fingers tightening on the triggers.
But the deafening roar of gunfire did not come from the soldiers.
A single, suppressed gunshot echoed through the luxury apartment.
Carlo Martini gasped, dropping his crystal glass.
The glass shattered on the hardwood floor, mixing with a sudden pool of dark blood.
Carlo collapsed to his knees, a bullet hole perfectly centered in the back of his head.
The old man fell forward, dead before he hit the ground.
The six armed men did not turn around to find the shooter.
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They simply lowered their rifles and stepped aside.
Rico Castellano walked into the room, holding a smoking pistol.
