Dario Azzara, sotto capo to Don Luca Baldi, sat in a darkened room with a bottle of aged scotch at his elbow.

“I heard crying upstairs.” Don Baldi said, quietly entering the room. “Has something happened?”

“I was about to wake you up, to tell you,” said Azzara. His face was drawn, and he mumbled into his glass.

“But you needed to fortify yourself with some liquor first,” said on Baldi quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Well, how that your drink is finished, why don’t you tell me the news? I seem to be the last one to know.”

Azzara choked a little, thinking back to the massacre he had witnessed.

“It’s all right,” said Baldi. “We’ve known a day like this would come. It’s the life we have chosen.”

“Angelina D’Antonio has been eliminated from American Idol,” Azzara choked. “The vote wasn’t even close.”

Don Baldi fell to his knees with an anguished sob that echoed throughout the manor.

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