The silence after gunfire was never quiet.

It rang.

It pressed against the ears like a scream trapped behind glass. Smoke lingered in the dining hall, curling toward the frescoed ceiling where saints and conquerors watched impassively as blood seeped into ancient marble.

Antonio Bellanti lay on the floor, clutching his leg, teeth bared in agony and disbelief. His blood pooled dark and thick, staining the legacy he had tried to steal.

Don Bellanti Sr. lowered his gun with the same calm he ...