The silence that fell over the kitchen was absolute, heaviest and far more dangerous than the silence that had haunted the halls of my Long Island estate for the past fourteen months.

The storm reached its peak at two in the morning, battering the slate roof of the estate with wind that sounded like roaring wild beasts.

I descended the stone steps into the basement level beneath the wine cellar. This was part of the house that didn't exist on any architectural blueprints filed with the town of Hempstead. It was a reinforced, soundproof bunker built by my father forty years ago during the First Syndicate War.

Marco was waiting for me in the secondary command room, surrounded by six glowing security monitors displaying live camera feeds of the estate's perimeter.

"Dominic," Marco said, standing up from his chair as I entered. He holds a mug of black coffee. "The perimeter is secure. No movement on the north fence. I sent two guys to check the front gate five minutes ago."

I didn't answer right away. I walked over to the main monitor showing the grand entryway of the house.

I looked at Marco's left side.

Under his heavy leather jacket, tucked out of sight beneath his collar, was a heavy silver chain. He had worn it for as long as I could remember. I had never seen the medallion attached to it. He always kept it tucked underneath his undershirt.

"Marco," I said casually, pouring myself a cup of water from the cooler in the corner. "Where were you the night before Isabelle died?"

Marco paused, his mug halfway to his mouth. His eyes flicked towards me for a fraction of a second before returning to the monitor screens.

"What kind of question is that, Dominic? That was fourteen months ago."

"Answer the question," I said, my tone is completely flat.

"I was at the club in Manhattan," Marco said, taking a sip of his coffee. "Setting up the security detail for the shipment from Naples. You were in Chicago dealing with the union reps. Why are you bringing this up now?"

"Because I found something in Isabelle's personal safe upstairs," I lied smoothly. "A note. Written in her handwriting."

Marco put his coffee mug down on the metal table. The movement was slightly too careful. "A note? What kind of note?"

"She mentioned a visitor," I said, taking a step closer to him. "Someone who came to the house late at night while I was out of state. Someone wearing a red medallion."

The silence in the concrete room became deafening, broken only by the low, electrical hum of the security monitors.

Marco's right hand moved by less than a quarter of an inch toward his waistband.

It was all the confirmation I needed.

Before his fingers could even brush the leather of his holster, I drew the SIG Sauer from beneath my coat and slammed the heavy steel barrel directly against the side of his skull.

CRACK!

Marco grunted, stumbling sideways and crashing over the metal folding chair, hitting the concrete floor with a heavy thud. His gun fell from his belt, skidding across the floor.

I stepped forward, placed my leather boot squarely on his chest, and pointed the barrel of my weapon directly between his eyes.

"Dominic... wait!" Marco gasped, blood pouring from a gash above his left ear, trailing down his neck. "What the hell are you doing?! I've been your brother for twenty years!"

"Reach into your shirt, Marco," I whispered, pulling the hammer of the pistol back with a sharp, lethal click . "Pull out the chain. Do it now, or I swear to God I will blow your knee off right here."

Marco's chest rose and fell in rapid, frantic heaves. His eyes, usually cool and calculating, were wide with frantic terror.

Slowly, with his left hand trembling violently, he reached under his collar and pulled out the heavy silver chain.

At the end of the chain hangs a heavy, custom-cast silver medallion.

A cross. With a broken left arm. Inlaid with deep red rubies.

My teeth ground together so hard I felt the enamel strain. "You."

"Dominic, listen to me!" Marco stammered, blood pooling on the concrete beneath his head. "You don't understand the full picture! It wasn't just me! The Morettis... they have half the Commission in their pocket! They were going to wipe out your entire family! They were going to kill you, Isabelle, and the girls in one night!"

"So you made a deal," I said, my voice dropped into a register that wasn't human anymore. "You offered them Isabelle in exchange for your own seat at the table."

"She found the offshore accounts!" Marco cried out, tears mixed with the blood on his cheeks. "She was going to tell you I was skimming from the construction contracts! If she told you, you would have put me in the ground! I had no choice, Dominic! I had to protect myself!"

"You threaten my daughters," I said.

"I didn't hurt them!" Marco begged, holding his hands up. "I kept them safe! I told the hitmen in Garden City to leave the kids in the car! I spared them, Dominic! I saved your daughters!"

"You didn't save them," I said, my thumb resting on the trigger. "You condemned them to a living death for fourteen months. You made them mute in their own home."

"Dominic... please..."

I didn't hesitate.

I leaned down, grabbed Marco by his leather collar, and dragged his heavy frame across the floor toward the iron storage vault at the back of the basement. I threw him inside, pulled the heavy iron door shut, and turned the mechanical wheel lock until the steel bolts slammed into place.

"Dominic!" Marco's muffled screams echoed through the thick iron. "You can't leave me in here! The Morettis know I'm here! If I don't check in by six in the morning, their hit squad will hit the estate! They have ten men positioned at the tree line!"