The sit-down was set for dusk three days later.
For the first time in twelve years, the crystal chandeliers in the sealed Ferraro family hall blazed with light.
Along both sides of the long table sat the most powerful men on the East Coast.
The heads of the New York, Chicago, and Boston families had all come.
Each wore his family crest pinned to his chest.
Behind them stood armed guards.
The air smelled of cigars and champagne, but beneath it lay a current of violence so thick it seemed to press against the walls.
Don Falcone came too.
He wore an impeccably tailored dark suit and carried a bouquet of white roses.
His smile was flawless.
He even approached Donna Vittoria and bowed deeply.
“Congratulations, Donna Ferraro.”
“To recover a lost granddaughter is a grace from God.”
T
