Page 1 of Blood in the Water
Prologue
Farrell Black pulled through the iron gates and watched in the rearview mirror as they closed behind him. He could hardly blame Damian Cavallo for being careful.
He navigated the rented Audi around the curves in the drive, freshly plowed despite the snow collecting on either side and surrounded by trees that almost entirely blocked out the moonlight. He’d been to the house more times than he could count in the two years since Damian Cavallo had taken over the territory, but it still surprised him to find a place so isolated only an hour outside New York City.
The car emerged from the pathway and onto a circular gravel drive in front of the giant stone house. Rising three stories into the night with forest on all sides, it would have been ominous as fuck if not for the light spilling from several of the house’s windows.
He pulled the rental next to a Range Rover that was standard issue for the Syndicate’s highest ranking leaders. Retrofitted with an armored body and bulletproof glass, the SUV was virtually impenetrable, a benefit they’d all — Farrell included — needed at one time or another.
He stepped out of the car and breathed in the clean air, a relief after hours in a plane and the exhaust and grime of the city. It had been tempting to order the pilot to skip the errand in New York — Farrell wanted nothing more than to get home to Jenna and their children — but the situation in Boston was a powder keg, and the New York and Boston territories had always been closely connected. If anyone had heard anything, it would be Damian or the men in his operation, and while a phone call might have sufficed, it had been months since he’d seen the man that had been his protégé.
One of the massive wood doors opened before he reached it, and Farrell looked up to see Damian grinning from inside the house.
“Surprise inspection?”
Farrell snorted. “You can get yourself killed for all I care.” He held out a hand and Damian took it. Farrell stepped into the foyer. “How are you?”
“It’s bath time,” Damian said. “The twins are running us ragged.”
“Where’s the nanny?” Farrell asked.
Damian smiled and shook his head. “No nanny.” He looked around, like he was getting ready to steal his mother’s biscuits from the top shelf and wanted to make sure she was nowhere in sight. “Aria insists we do it ourselves.”
Farrell shook his head. “Americans.”
“Not all Americans,” Damian said, leading Farrell through the house. Lights were on in nearly every room of the old mansion, table lamps casting a cozy glow over a mix of antique and modern furnishings, painstakingly recreated murals, and polished wood. It reminded Farrell of the house — one of many — he and Jenna shared in Cornwall. “You know Aria’s situation.”
Farrell nodded. Aria Fiore had been raised by her brother Primo, a dime-store gangster who’d gotten surprisingly far in the New York territory after the fall of the original Syndicate. Primo had been mentally unwell, a factor Farrell and the other leaders of the Syndicate had tried to take into account when dealing with him. Unfortunately, he’d been killed, one of many casualties of the turf war that had been necessary to return control to the new Syndicate, led by Farrell, Nico Vitale, Christophe Marchand, and Luca Cassano.
Farrell knew all about the lasting damage of childhood — it had taken years for Jenna to get over her own troubled upbringing. He imagined Aria wanted to give her children the security she hadn’t had as a kid. From the looks of things, she was doing a damn fine job of it.
“Hungry?” Damian asked, leading Farrell into a designer kitchen that somehow managed to look like it had been there for a hundred years. Somewhere beyond the room, a murmured voice sounded, followed by a burst of childish laughter that made Farrell wish he were already home in London. “We made lasagna — Aria’s mother’s recipe. There’s plenty left.”
“Does the lasagna come with whiskey?”
Damian laughed. “It does if you want it to.”
“I want it to.” Farrell took a seat at the marble-topped island and looked around while Damian poured whiskey and set a thick piece of lasagna on a plate. “The place looks good.”
He had to hand it to Damian and Aria. Back when Damian had been fighting for control of New York, the house had been the target of an explosion that had left the front half in rubble. At the time, Farrell had thought it foolhardy to try and rebuild, but the house had belonged toDamian’s parents — old school wealthy New Yorkers — and he’d insisted on salvaging it.
“Thanks,” Damian said, pushing the plate toward Farrell. “It’s mostly Aria. You should see the greenhouse and the gardens in the summer.”
“I’m sure it’s beautiful.”
“It is.” Damian sat at the island with a whiskey of his own.
“How are things here?” Farrell asked. “Did you deal with that prick Antonio?”
“Last month,” Damian said.
“Any problems?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Antonio Costanzo had been an up-and-coming soldier in New York when he’d decided to start skimming profits from the Syndicate. It wasn’t unusual, but Antonio’s bid to gather allies in an attempt to overthrow Damian had been — unusual and foolish. Here at the house in Westchester, Damian looked the part of happy husband and father, but he’d been chosen as the leader of the New York territory for his reputation as a highly intelligent wunderkind whose skill in the financial sector did nothing to temper his inherent enjoyment of violence.
It was a predilection Farrell understood. Unlike so many in their business who preferred the use of weapons, Farrell had always been partial to the release of a good old-fashioned ass kicking.