Chapter 3
Sebastian stared at the smoking cigar.
Then smiled.
“You've got a trespasser.”
His tone was almost amused.
“Terrifying.”
Rocco looked at him.
Sebastian shrugged.
“Maybe fire a gardener.”
Celeste laughed.
Donna stood behind Rocco.
She had stopped trembling.
Not because she felt safe.
Because every step proved she had not imagined anything.
Celeste saw that.
Her expression hardened.
“Don't look so pleased.”
Donna’s eyes met hers.
Celeste stepped closer.
“You still knelt.”
Rocco turned sharply.
Celeste did not stop.
“You still scrubbed my shoes.”
“And if he hadn't walked in, you'd still be doing it.”
Donna’s face fell.
Celeste smiled.
“That’s the part you should remember.”
Rocco’s voice came low.
“Celeste.”
She looked at him.
“Enough.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“Again?”
A soft laugh.
“You keep saying that whenever the truth about your mother becomes embarrassing.”
Rocco’s jaw tightened.
Celeste looked around the passage.
“She is not a queen because she gave birth to you.”
“No.”
Rocco’s gaze hardened.
“She is my mother because she raised me.”
Celeste rolled her eyes.
“How moving.”
Then Sebastian whistled softly.
“Can we return to the imaginary coup?”
Rocco looked ahead.
The north passage opened into a small stone chamber beneath the chapel.
Once used during Prohibition-era meetings.
Long abandoned.
Tonight it was not.
Three chairs.
An ashtray.
A bottle of expensive whiskey.
One glass still wet.
Celeste’s perfume lingered in the air.
Rocco looked toward her.
She smiled.
“At least now you know I prefer good whiskey.”
He walked farther.
On the stone table rested a white rose.
Black ribbon around the stem.
Serrano.
Rocco’s expression hardened.
Sebastian moved first.
Too casual.
He reached toward it.
Rocco caught his wrist.
Sebastian looked down at Rocco’s hand.
Then up.
“Take your hand off me.”
Rocco did not.
Sebastian smiled.
“You're still angry because I embarrassed you in front of the garage staff.”
Rocco slowly released him.
Sebastian rubbed his wrist.
“Better.”
Then Rocco noticed a chair at the head of the table.
Different from the others.
Larger.
Old Bellacorte carving along the arms.
His father’s underground council chair.
Rocco had not seen it since he was twenty-seven.
Someone had brought it out of storage.
Celeste watched him recognize it.
Her smile returned.
“That bothers you?”
Rocco looked at her.
“You moved my father's chair.”
She shrugged.
“It’s furniture.”
Donna whispered:
“No.”
Celeste turned.
Donna’s eyes were fixed on the chair.
“You sat in it.”
Celeste laughed.
“Did I?”
“You did.”
“And?”
Donna’s voice shook.
“Salvatore never allowed anyone else to sit there.”
Celeste walked toward the chair.
Then deliberately sat.
Slowly.
Crossed one leg over the other.
Looked at Rocco.
Every bodyguard in the room stiffened.
Celeste smiled.
“There.”
Her voice became mocking.
“Did the house fall down?”
Rocco stared.
Celeste leaned back.
“If your father’s ghost wants the chair, he can come take it.”
Donna looked horrified.
Celeste enjoyed it.
“So much superstition.”
“So much bowing.”
“No wonder this family confuses memory with authority.”
Rocco looked at Sebastian.
“He let her sit there.”
Sebastian smiled.
“She'll be your wife.”
“Soon half these decisions will be hers anyway.”
Rocco’s expression changed.
Sebastian saw it.
“Don't pretend otherwise.”
He stepped closer.
“You need Celeste.”
“Her crews.”
“Her North Shore contacts.”
“Her money.”
His tone became insulting.
“You are not marrying a girl because you like how she looks at dinner.”
“You are marrying power.”
Celeste smiled from the chair.
“And power doesn't kneel beside sinks.”
Donna lowered her eyes.
Rocco’s hand slowly closed.
Then he noticed scratches beneath the tabletop.
Fresh.
Three letters carved into the stone dust.
R.B.C.
He brushed the residue away.
No.
Not letters.
Initials.
R. B. C.
Rocco Bellacorte Council.
His own council mark.
Someone had been preparing this room as an alternate command chamber.
Sebastian saw it.
His face changed.
Only slightly.
Rocco looked toward him.
“Who carved this?”
Sebastian said nothing.
Then a voice came from the passage behind them.
“Not him.”
Everyone turned.
An older capo named Vincent Bellacorte stood at the entrance.
Rocco’s uncle.
His father’s younger brother.
Vincent looked at Celeste sitting in Salvatore’s chair.
His face became cold.
“Get out of that seat.”
Celeste smiled.
“No.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
Rocco stared at his uncle.
“You know about this room.”
Vincent looked at him.
“Yes.”
“How?”
A pause.
“Because they invited me.”
May you like
The third man in the tunnel had not been Serrano.
One of Rocco’s own blood relatives had already been approached.
