Chapter 5 - The Reading of the Will
At exactly 9:00 AM, the oak-paneled grand salon of the Lake Forest estate was packed to maximum capacity.
The room smelled of expensive cologne, fresh coffee, and nervous anticipation. Seated around the mahogany conference table were the five regional captains of the Falcone syndicate, three senior corporate attorneys, and half a dozen financial advisers who looked like they were waiting for an executioner.
At the head of the table sat Carmine Russo, dressed in a custom Brioni suit, wearing Liam’s diamond signet ring on his right pinky finger.
Beside him sat Renata, draped in black mourning velvet, dabbing a dry corner of her eye with a lace handkerchief that showed precisely the right amount of grief for the assembled cameras and legal aides.
“Let us begin,” lead attorney Henderson announced, adjusting his half-moon spectacles and clearing his throat. “We are gathered for the official reading of the last will and testament of Liam Joseph Falcone, deceased four days ago following a tragic cardiovascular event.”
Carmine leaned back in Liam’s leather chair, resting his hands across his stomach with an air of absolute, unassailable dominion.
“Before Henderson reads the distribution of assets,” Carmine interrupted, his voice smooth and resonant, “I’d like to say a few words. Liam was my brother. We built this family from the pavement up. While it breaks my heart to assume the mantle of leadership under such dark circumstances, I promise every man in this room that the Falcone name will reach new heights of prosperity.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the seated captains. Two of them—men Liam had personally pulled out of federal penitentiaries years ago—nodded approvingly, their loyalty already bought and paid for by Carmine’s future promises.
“Thank you, Carmine,” Renata whispered, placing a manicured hand over his. “Liam would have wanted you in this seat.”
“Proceed, Henderson,” Carmine commanded, gesturing with the hand wearing Liam’s ring.
The attorney unfolded the heavy parchment document, cleared his throat again, and began to read the formal legal language.
“‘I, Liam Joseph Falcone, being of sound mind and body…’”
The heavy double doors at the far end of the grand salon didn't just open; they crashed back against the wood-paneled walls with a resounding, thunderous bang that made every man at the table leap to his feet.
“What the hell—!” Carmine shouted, standing up and reaching instinctively for the shoulder holster beneath his jacket.
The room fell instantly, terrifyingly silent.
Walking through the double doors was a man who should have been rotting in a walnut box six feet underground.
Liam Falcone wore his wrinkled tuxedo like battle armor. His face was pale, his eyes burning with a cold, terrifying fury that seemed to drop the room's temperature by twenty degrees. In his right hand, he dragged the heavy titanium crowbar across the imported Persian rug, the metal hissing a low, grinding warning against the threads.
Behind him, holding a thick leather ledger and a stack of flash drives, stood Luna Hartley, her chin held high.
Renata screamed—a high, piercing sound that shattered a crystal water glass beside her plate.
Several captains staggered backward, their faces draining of all color as if they were staring straight into the gates of hell. One older captain crossed himself frantically, muttering a frantic prayer in Italian.
“L-Liam?” Carmine stammered, his hand freezing halfway to his weapon, his eyes bulging as he stared at the man walking steadily toward him. “No... that’s... you’re dead! We buried you!”
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“Did you?” Liam’s voice cut through the room like a razor blade, cold, rhythmic, and absolute. He stopped five feet from the head of the table, leaning his weight onto the crowbar. “Funny. I don't remember inviting you to the viewing, Carmine.”
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