Inside Don Cerino's private estate, the bitter aroma of freshly pulled espresso and expensive tobacco filled the place.
Don Cerino sat behind his heavy desk, wearing a tailored black suit. To his left stood Robert, holding a leather folder tucked beneath his arm. To his right leaned Gino, his eyes fixed with disgust on the man seated on the leather sofa across the room.
Salvatore Giordano looked like a corpse someone had forgotten to bury.
The former Moyah family capo, now the boss of his own family, was hollow eyed, his collar open, his hands shaking so badly he could barely keep his glass of water steady.
In just a few months, his entire world had been ripped apart. New York, or Queens to be exact, isn't the same anymore for him. He felt completely strangers to the new people who were taking control of the streets, as more young crews were appearing rapidly now, all loyal to one man, Arslan.
