Dead?

Lucien

He wanted to throttle the man at the other end.

The news was beginning to sink in slowly.

Dead.

The young Capo was dead.

The lover his eldest daughter adored was dead.

Schwartz was on the phone, frantically trying to contact people. He had even asked Aiyana’s old colleague, Bishop, for help. Now he turned, a defeated look on his face as he sank onto the large armchair, his strong shoulders slumping in defeat.

The Don turned as the door opened and his son, Piers, walked in. The blonde haired young man, a virtual replica of Lucien, except for his body, for Piers favored practicing martial arts and had already mastered the ancient art of Kalari Payattu, a deadly art that came all the way from India. He could disable a man and even kill, but he had never done so.

On the other hand, both Lucien and Claude were men who fought with their fists, their bodies well-muscled and bulging with corded sinews.

Wordlessly, Lucien met his oldest son’s eyes.

The young man did not say a word but h