I Buried The Don And Took His Throne Chapter 09
The Head in the Box
Front gate of the Vitale compound.
Enzo Russo is standing on the running board of an SUV, waving a chrome revolver over his head, screaming at the closed gate.
“Dante Vitale is illegitimate! That whore has him on a leash! Every one of you with a set — you follow me in, we get Bianca out, we clean this house!”
I watch him from the shadow of the second-floor balcony and I can feel my trigger finger itching.
Two lives, this exact clown — a guy who can’t hold his liquor at a sit-down — walked right over my grandfather’s shoulders and took half the Crestwell crew.
Dante drifts up behind me. Black coat, the wind pulling at it.
His long fingers rest lazy on the trigger guard of his sidearm.
“Sloane. This one — yours or mine?”
I take the sawed-off out of my captain’s hands. “You sit tight. Trash like this doesn’t get to dirty your hands.”
The gate rolls open.
Enzo doesn’t even have time to look victorious before the courtyard fills with Crestwell shooters in black — every one of them my grandfather’s men, every one of them mine again.
“Enzo. This kind of housecleaning is heavy lifting. Let me give you a hand.”
I step down off the balcony. The sawed-off comes up in one smooth motion.
The first shot takes his triggerman’s throat out. Blood on the marble.
Then the screaming starts. Muzzle flashes, the crack of guns, boots on stone, horses of a car alarm somewhere in the mix.
The white stone driveway goes red in under a minute.
I close the distance on Enzo, toss the sawed-off and draw the KA-BAR off my hip.
He’s frozen. His revolver hits the gravel. There’s a dark stain spreading down the front of his slacks.
“S-Sloane! You wouldn’t! My sister is —”
“Your sister is a starving nobody in a basement waiting to die. And you’re a traitor coming at a made Don with a gun.”
My wrist turns. Clean line across his throat.
His head separates from his shoulders and rolls twice.
I pick it up by the hair, drop it in a shoebox from one of my guys, then walk toward the basement, slow.
Every step leaves a sticky red print on the marble.
I kick the basement door open and toss the box in.
The box tumbles across the concrete. The lid pops. Enzo’s face rolls to a stop staring straight at Bianca.
“AAAAAH —!”
The scream nearly takes the ceiling off. Bianca claws away from Marco, shoves him hard, crawls backward into the corner on her broken hand.
Marco sees the head, his knees give, and he drops flat on the floor.
Then he crawls. On his elbows. To my feet.
“Sloane! Sloane, listen — listen to me — it was her! She seduced me! That whore, she twisted me around —”
He starts banging his forehead against the concrete. Splits the skin open. Blood everywhere.
“It was Enzo! It was the two of them! They made me strip your crew, they made me disrespect you, I’ve only ever loved you, baby, you know that, they got in my head —”
To save his own life, this man — the Don who sat on his father’s chair three months ago — twists around and starts open-hand slapping Bianca across her already broken face.
“You bitch! You did this to me! You poisonous, cold-hearted piece of —”
Bianca just sits there, catching every slap, staring up at him.
Same look I had on my face. Twice.
I watch these two strays go at each other and my chest is quiet. Flat calm.
I almost want to laugh.
This is the man I loved. The man who took me out twice for the sake of true love.
I crouch down. Rest the bloody tip of my knife under Marco’s chin.
“Marco. You make me sick.”
“Sloane, I was wrong, I was so wrong, I —”