Vincent stood on a rickety wooden crate, the megaphone in his hand crackling intermittently from the damp. He listened to the rain overhead, like countless tiny fingers tapping on the sheet-metal roof, then looked toward the police cars parked beside the road in the distance.
He still remembered the inside information The Roman's gang members had given him: those damned cops had taken the money that should have been his.
Heavy velvet curtains sealed the study in the Tuscany villa off from the outside world, leaving only the flickering fireplace to cast shifting shadows across Carmine Falcone's wrinkled face. Smoke filled the room, the sharp scent of cigars almost thick enough to see.
On either side of the long table, his most important lieutenants sat rigidly upright in an oppressive silence like the stillness before a storm, not daring to make a sound.
"Tell me," Falcone said, his voice as steady as ever, betraying neither pleasure nor anger. "How much have we lost lately?"
"Three underground casinos in the Diamond District... were raided. We lost over one point eight million in cash, and some of the boys guarding them are still at the Police Department."
After a brief silence, one man ventured to speak. Then the others followed, complaints and grievances pouring out like floodwater through a broken dam.
"Two warehouses we control in the Dock District were hit with surprise inspections. They impounded a shipment of... building materials. Worth a lot of money..."
"On the streets under my control, several shops under our protection have been subjected to constant inspections. They can't do any business, and the protection money has dried up..."
Their voices clamored over one another, every face bitter, as though each of them were the worst victim of Barnes's new policies. Falcone listened quietly, his