The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the steady drip of condensation falling from the conservatory's glass dome onto the broad leaves of an orchid below. Salvatore Rossi bowed his head, his shoulders shaking with silent, dry sobs. Forty years of syndicate glory, forty years of wealth, respect, and power, had culminated in this pathetic, stripped-bare moment of reckoning. 'What happens now, Don Luca?' Rossi asked, his voice…
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