The ballroom of the Manhattan Yacht Club was as silent as a stone tomb. The two shots into the ceiling had left a faint haze of cordite hanging in the air, while two Santoro enforcers dragged Gianni Falco’s limp, bleeding body away from the podium and tossed him into the corner like a bundle of discarded rags. Bruno Ricci knelt beside him, weeping silently with his forehead pressed against the…
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