ien

in gate. From my vantage point in the west wing, I watched o

nto the intercom, his voice dripping with t

Mrs. Valachi's vehicle is t

r of her place. She was not a guest o

itated. The ca

the back d

y. She stood there for a moment, surveying the imposing black ir

ed... un

o a beat-up looking gardening truck parked down the road. A man got

d amused glances. What was she do

s fluttering in the wind. She pulled ope

inforced steel. The thick, bulletp

a garden

transport vehicl

ral, angry sound that vibrated thr

e cracked with panic over the comms.

their rifles. Warn

ored th

a thunderclap. Metal screamed, groaned, and then buckled inward. The custom-made, ha

elessly against th

reckage, tearing up the manicured lawn, and scre

red across

and the grounds, surrounding the vehicle, thei

were crowding the windows, their fac

mposure gone. "Don... she... she ramm

cleaning my favorite pi

long time, I felt something other t

... in

mile touched my lip

r of the armored

dirt and grease, but somehow, it only made her stand o

nted at her head. She ignored the

of the house, and I knew, with absolu

rom her skirt, a gesture of s

voice, clear and car

ride i

om my men. They were frozen, uns

p, mocking edge to her voice

use, his face pale, pointing a trembl

t him, her gaze stil

p in the face to my entire family, "is the Don of the Val