Then another followed it.

Then a third.

“Stop right there, Uncle,” a voice called out over the roar of the wind.

It was Marcus.

He wore a heavy leather jacket, soaked black by the relentless rain.

In his right hand, he held a chrome-plated automatic.

Two men stood slightly behind him, their faces hidden by the deep hoods of their rain gear.

They carried short-barreled submachine guns, held low but ready.

Vincenzo stopped, his boots sliding slightly on the wet gravel.

“Marcus,” Vincenzo said, his voice surprisingly steady despite his pain. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m exactly where I need to be,” Marcus shouted back.

The rain beat down on his young face, washing away his tears as fast as they fell.

“You killed my father,” Marcus said, his voice cracking with a mixture of rage and grief.

“That is a lie, Marcus,” Vincenzo said, taking a shallow breath. “Tony told you that to use you.”

“You expect me to believe you?” Marcus sneered.

He took three steps forward, lowering his center of gravity.

His weapon was leveled directly at Vincenzo’s chest.