Chapter 9 - The Return of the Boss
The private charter touched down at Logan International Airport under a gray, spitting Boston sky.
There were no welcoming committees, no press corps, and no marching bands. Just a row of six black Suburbans idling on the tarmac, their engines purring with suppressed power, manned by thirty hardened Moretti and Santoro loyalists who had spent seven years waiting in the shadows for their true boss to return.
The rear door of the lead SUV opened.
Raphael Santoro stepped out first, wearing his long black overcoat, his silver-streaked hair blowing in the airport gale, his face carved from cold, unyielding granite.
Then, he turned and offered his hand.
I stepped out behind him, wearing an impeccably tailored dark emerald wool coat, my dark hair swept into an austere chignon, my sunglasses hiding the cold, calculating intelligence in my eyes.
In my right hand, I carried the leather-bound notebook containing seven years of corporate audits, title registries, and financial vulnerabilities I had quietly compiled while running my flower shop in Seattle.
Gideon Pace stood by the open door, nodding respectfully. "Welcome home, boss. Welcome home, Mrs. Santoro."
Raphael didn't smile. He wrapped his arm securely around my waist, pulling me flush against his side as we walked toward the convoy.
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"The commission is holding an emergency tribunal at the North End headquarters tonight," Gideon reported, jogging to keep pace. "They think we're dead."
"Good," Raphael rasped, his voice cutting through the wind like a razor. "Let them set the table."
