Before the stunned silence in the ballroom could break, the heavy oak double doors at the rear of the Yacht Club swung open once more with a thunderous, dramatic crash that rattled the nautical lanterns overhead. Stepping through the threshold, flanked by twelve heavily armed Santoro tactical operators in tailored charcoal suits with earpieces and submachine guns held in low-ready, was Don Marco Santoro. Conversations ceased completely. Capos instinctively backed…
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