Chapter 4

At two in the morning, thunder rumbled over the Mediterranean as lightning split the sky and rain poured down.

In the abandoned apartment at the port of Palermo, the damp smell of mold hung in the air.

I lay on the cold, hard bed, burning up with a fever of 104 degrees.

My lungs felt like they were on fire. Every breath tasted like blood.

It was a recurring illness I'd developed years earlier while opening arms routes in Eastern Europe for my family. A chill could trigger acute pneumonia.

Half an hour ago, my private doctor had left me some fever medicine before several armed mobsters dragged him away.

"Sorry, ma'am. The Don's orders. All medical resources go to the castle's defenses first!"

I curled up under the thin blanket, shivering, and tapped my phone awake.

Three hours ago, I'd sent Enzo a message asking for help.

"My old illness is back. I have a fever of 104. The heat's broken here. I need my medicine."

The message still showed as unread.

It wasn't until ten minutes ago that he finally sent back a cold voice message.

The background was chaos, full of heavy gunfire and Gina's muffled groans of pain.

Enzo's voice was rough, cold, and extremely impatient.

"The Camorra family ambushed the summit. We're fighting our way out. I don't have time for your delicate little problems!

"The medicine's right next to you. Take two pills yourself. You're a grown woman. Do you have to make a scene over catching a little chill?

"Gina took a bullet in the stomach covering me. I'm on the helicopter trying to stop her bleeding! Be reasonable. Sleep it off. It won't kill you!"

The message cut off.

A pale flash of lightning ripped across the sky outside, followed by roaring thunder.

The flash lit up the glass of cold water on the nightstand, already crusted with ice.

Before, if I so much as pricked my finger on a rose thorn, Enzo would be frantic with worry, shoot every gardener in the rose garden, and fly in an entire team of surgeons from Switzerland overnight.

He'd once knelt by my bed, holding my injured finger and crying.

"Sophia, even if it costs me my life, I won't let you suffer even a little."

And now I lay dangerously ill in this freezing, broken-down cage, while he sat on a helicopter, tenderly pressing on his "comrade's" wound.

So a man's promises were worth less than sea foam.

I gritted my teeth, struggled to sit up, and yanked the IV out of the back of my hand. Blood had already backed up into the line.

Blood dripped onto the concrete floor. I didn't even flinch.

So what if the fever won't break?

My heart froze to death long ago.

I pushed open the hidden compartment and pulled out the blast-proof case from deep inside.

Inside, neatly stacked, were dozens of offshore trust contracts, original international arms quota documents, and that yellowed parchment ledger.

This was no record of my extravagance.

Three years ago, when Enzo had nothing, I'd used the Medici family's old connections to pave his way and launder his money through the Vatican, NATO, and every major European consortium. To prove his loyalty, he'd signed one agreement after another, giving up another piece of his power each time.

He thought they were toys I'd snatched out of his hands because I was beautiful and spoiled.

He'd long forgotten that without my family's centuries of blood-soaked capital, the great Enzo Corleone would have ended up a rotting corpse in the sewers of Palermo.

The satellite terminal in the hidden room glowed an eerie green.

Clearing notices from UBS and the Vatican's financial authority cascaded down the screen.

[Offshore account A-09: three billion euros successfully withdrawn and transferred to the main Medici trust.]

[Mediterranean arms routes one and two: access rights transferred to Calabria's Honored Society.]

[Secret funding channels for 13 senior officials at the Interior Ministry in Rome: fully frozen.]

Transfer complete.

That night, with my own hands, I severed the lifeline that had allowed the Corleone family to dominate the Mediterranean.

Holding a Montblanc fountain pen, I signed my ancient family name on the termination agreement and the asset liquidation statement.

Sophia Medici.

The signature was sharp as a blade, final and unforgiving.

I didn't take any of the jewelry or furs Enzo had bought me.

I left behind all that garbage that reeked of betrayal.

I took only a leather case filled with hard drives containing the family's most sensitive secrets.

At five in the morning, the first light of dawn broke through the thick sea fog.

The rain had stopped. The air was salty with the smell of the sea.

Standing in the doorway, I tossed the black card granting access to the Corleone family's highest-security vault, along with the parchment ledger, onto the dusty, broken table beside me.

On the first page of the ledger was the oath Enzo had carved with the tip of a knife three years ago.

"I offer every crown and every drop of blood in Sicily to my sovereign, Sophia."

I drew the small knife I always carried and slashed a blood-red X across it.

Outside, a black bulletproof Lincoln with special Interior Ministry plates from Rome slid silently to a stop at the curb.

Two guards in black trench coats, wearing the Medici double-headed eagle crest, respectfully opened the car door and dropped to one knee.

"Your Grace."

I took out the SIM card I'd used for three years, snapped it in half, and tossed it into the muddy gutter.

"To the private helipad.

"We're going back to Florence."