“What?”
Stany blinked. That wasn’t the script. Men he killed didn’t send their children to him for protection. They sent assassins. They sent curses. They sent the police. Stany Falcone
“Your house,” she said. “My papa used to work for you. Mario Tessitore.” “What
Stany’s blood went cold. Mario Tessitore had been his best collector. He’d also been the one who, three years ago, had tried to skim from the family accounts. Stany had handled it personally. He remembered Mario’s last words: “One day, someone will come for you, Falcone. And you won’t see them coming.” three years ago
“Elena,” Stany repeated, tasting the word. “Do you know where you are?”