Vincenzo shook his head slowly, a look of profound sadness on his face.

He looked so old, older than his sixty-two years.

The rain clung to his grey hair, plastering it to his lined forehead.

“I loved your brother, Marcus,” Vincenzo said softly. “I loved your father.”

“You loved the throne more,” Marcus said.

He raised the gun, aligning the sights with his uncle’s chest.

The wind picked up, sending a wave of harbor spray over us.

I could feel the cold metal of my own gun against my ribs.

I couldn’t shoot Marcus; he was a pawn in Tony’s larger game.

And if I fired, Romano’s men would shred us before we could take cover.

“Ask Romano,” Vincenzo suddenly said, pointing a trembling finger toward the shadowed enforcer.

Romano froze, his hand drifting toward his pocket.

“What?” Marcus frowned, not lowering his gun from Vincenzo.

“Romano was there the night your father died,” Vincenzo said.

“Romano was protecting him,” Marcus said, though his voice wavered.

“Romano was holding the door,” Vincenzo countered.

I saw the radio on Romano’s shoulder crackle with static.