Marco Betrayal The Guardian of Queens

The grand wrought-iron gates of Don Corrado’s estate in Whitestone swung open silently as my Escalade pulled up the long, tree-lined driveway.

The rain had reduced to a steady, cold drizzle. The stone mansion looked peaceful, framed by manicured gardens and warm light glowing from the dining room windows. To anyone passing by, it looked like the quiet sanctuary of a wealthy retired businessman.

To me, it was a den of vipers.

I stepped out of the vehicle alone, ordering my men to remain hidden in the vehicles around the perimeter of the property. Only Bruno walked by my side, his heavy paws making no sound on the wet stone path.

I didn't knock. I unlocked the heavy oak front door using my personal key and walked inside.

The smell of rich garlic, roasting meats, and expensive red wine filled the grand foyer. From the dining room down the hall, I could hear the smooth, golden voice of Luciano Pavarotti singing an opera aria over the home sound system.

"Gabriel?" a voice called out from the dining room.

I walked down the hallway and pushed open the double doors.

Don Corrado was sitting at the head of a massive mahogany dining table laid out with a feast. He was dressed in a pristine navy-blue cardigan, a glass of vintage Chianti in his hand. He looked eighty percent grandfather and twenty percent king.

"Gabriel!" Corrado beamed, setting his wine glass down and standing up with open arms. "I was wondering when you would arrive! I heard there was some trouble at the funeral home down in Corona. Crazy dog barking at a casket? Is everything alright, my boy?"

I stood at the edge of the dining room, holding my wet hat in my hand, watching him carefully. Bruno stood at my knee, his dark eyes fixed intently on the old man.

"The girl was alive, Uncle," I said quietly.

Corrado froze for a fraction of a second, his warm smile wavering before returning. "Alive? What nonsense is this? The child was hit by a car, was she not?"

"She was poisoned with tetrodotoxin," I replied, walking slowly around the long table. "Placed in a synthetic coma so she could be buried alive in a white box without drawing suspicion."

Corrado took a slow sip of his wine, his face hardening into a serious expression. "Horrible. Absolute barbarism. Who could do such a thing to an innocent child?"

"Marco Ricci," I said. "And Victor Harlan."

Corrado shook his head solemnly. "Marco... I always knew that boy was unstable. A terrible tragedy. Have you located Harlan yet?"

"I have Harlan in my basement right now, Uncle," I said softly, stopping five feet from where Corrado sat. "And I have Account B."

The atmosphere in the grand dining room instantly shifted.

The opera music playing in the background suddenly sounded unnaturally loud. Corrado lowered his wine glass to the white tablecloth with a slow, deliberate movement.

"Account B?" Corrado repeated, his voice losing its warm, paternal tone, replaced by something cold and calculating.

"Five hundred thousand dollars a quarter," I said, looking into the eyes of the man who had raised me. "Transferred directly from Harlan’s offshore banks. Authorized by your personal security token, Uncle."

Corrado didn't panic. He didn't cry out or offer frantic denials like Marco had. Instead, he leaned back in his leather chair, adjusted the cuffs of his cardigan, and sighed deeply.

"You always were too sharp for your own good, Gabriel," Corrado murmured, staring into his wine glass. "Just like your father was."

The mention of my father made my blood run cold. "My father?"

Corrado raised his eyes, looking at me with a terrifyingly calm expression. "Your father was a idealist, Gabriel. Just like you. He wanted to run Queens like a charity. No drugs, no prostitution, no modern revenue streams. He was letting Manhattan take millions of dollars that rightfully belonged to us."

"So you killed him?" I whispered, my heart breaking into a thousand pieces. "Twenty years ago... it wasn't the Lucchese family who hit my father... it was you?"

Corrado smiled thinly—a terrifying, heartless smile. "I did what was necessary to preserve our family's future! Your father was leading us into financial ruin! And then you grew up, took the seat, and started making the exact same mistakes!"

"And Carlo?" I asked, tears of rage burning behind my eyes. "You ordered the hit on Carlo too?"

"Carlo was your attack dog," Corrado said coldly, waving his hand dismissively. "He was loyal to your foolish ideals. He had to be removed so Harlan could move his cargo through our docks without interference. It was simple arithmetic, Gabriel! Millions of dollars in profit in exchange for two stubborn men!"

Bruno let out a vicious growl, his rear legs coiling, ready to leap across the table and tear the old man’s throat out.

I raised my hand, holding Bruno back.

"Arithmetic," I repeated, my voice shaking with raw emotion. "You sold out your own blood for numbers on an offshore ledger."

"Look around you, Gabriel!" Corrado shouted, gesturing around the luxurious dining room. "Look at this house! Look at the power we possess! You cannot build an empire on sentimentality and rules! This business requires blood and money! If you cannot accept that, then you do not deserve to sit in the Don’s chair!"

"I govern with rules so we don't turn into monsters, Corrado," I said, pulling my pistol from my belt and laying it quietly on the table between us. "You traded your soul twenty years ago. And today, the bill comes due."

Corrado didn't look at the gun. He chuckled softly, picking up his wine glass again.

"You won't shoot me, Gabriel," Corrado sneered with absolute confidence. "I raised you. I held you when your father died. I taught you how to tie your ties. You don't have the stomach to murder your own uncle in cold blood."

I looked down at the pistol, then up at Corrado's arrogant, smiling face.

"You're right, Uncle," I said quietly. "I won't shoot you."

Corrado’s smile widened slightly. "I knew it—"

"I won't shoot you," I interrupted, "because I’m not going to give you a quick death."

I turned my back on him and walked toward the dining room doors.

"Tony!" I called out.

The double doors swung open, and Tony, Frankie, and four heavy enforcers walked into the room, holding heavy zip-ties and duct tape.

Corrado’s face turned white as he backed away from the table, dropping his wine glass, which shattered on the floor, spilling deep red liquid across the Persian rug.

"Gabriel! What are you doing?!" Corrado screamed, panicking as my men grabbed his arms. "I am your blood! You can't do this to me!"

"Take him to the basement next to Harlan," I ordered my men coldly. "Strip him of his title, strip him of his money, and let him sit in the dark with the man he sold us out to."

"Gabriel! You bastard! You can't leave me like this!" Corrado’s shrieks echoed through the grand foyer as my men dragged him away.

I stood alone in the quiet dining room, listening to the rain outside.

The traitors within my house had been rooted out.

But as I looked down at Bruno, I received an urgent text message on my phone from Dr. Vance at the clinic:

*Elena Vasquez has just woken up. She’s trying to speak, but she’s hysterical. She keeps repeating a name... and it’s not Harlan or Marco.*

My breath caught in my throat.