CHAPTER 2 VINCENTS WAVERING TRUST
Dominic Moretti adjusted his tie before knocking on Vincent's office door. The brass knocker echoed through the walnut-paneled hallway, a sound that had preceded executions and promotions alike.
"Enter."
Vincent sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, the ledger open but ignored. Dominic stepped inside, Sal and Paul flanking him like bookends. The air smelled of cigar smoke and lemon polish, the usual veneer over blood and business.
"We need to talk about Dario," Dominic said.
Vincent didn't look up. "Present your case."
Sal cleared his throat. "He's been operating outside the chain. Frankie Malone's dead—Dario's doing—and he didn't clear it. Didn't even report it."
Paul tapped the file in his hands. "Malone was skimming, sure, but that's not the point. The point is procedure. Dario doesn't get to decide who lives or dies without you."
Vincent's gaze flicked to Dominic. "You agree?"
Dominic nodded. "He's testing you. If he can whack a made man without consequences, what's next?"
A long silence. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked like a slow blade.
Vincent closed the ledger. "Tell Dario to be here tomorrow. Nine sharp."
Dominic exhaled. That was it—no debate, no hesitation. Vincent had seen the threat. "He won't like being summoned."
"He'll come." Vincent picked up his pen, dismissal clear. "And Dominic? Don't look so pleased. This isn't your victory."
Dominic stiffened but nodded. He led Sal and Paul out, shutting the door behind them.
In the hall, Sal muttered, "That's it? One meeting?"
"He'll handle it," Dominic said. Vincent hadn't survived thirty years by letting challenges go unanswered. Dario had overplayed his hand, and now the reckoning would come.
Paul checked his watch. "You think Dario knows we were here?"
"Doesn't matter." Dominic straightened his cuffs. "What matters is Vincent sees the problem now."
Behind them, through the office door, a drawer slid open. The distinct click of a pistol being checked.
Dominic smiled. Tomorrow, Dario would learn the cost of defiance.
The three men moved down the hallway, their footsteps muffled by the thick Persian runner. Sal lit a cigarette, the flame flickering in the dim light. "You really think it’ll be that simple? Dario’s got guys loyal to him. If Vincent clips him, there’ll be blowback."
Dominic didn’t break stride. "Vincent’s not stupid. He’ll make it clean. No spectacle, no mess. Just business."
Paul rubbed his jaw. "Unless Dario gets wind of it first. You saw how he handled Malone—no warning, no chance to explain. If he thinks he’s next, he won’t wait."
A door creaked open ahead of them, one of the kitchen staff stepping out with a tray of espresso cups.
The sharp scent of coffee cut through the smoke.
Dominic waited until the man passed before speaking again, voice low.
"Then we make sure he doesn’t think. Vincent wants him here tomorrow? Fine. But we don’t let him stew. Someone needs to talk to him, keep him calm."
Sal snorted. "You volunteering? Last time you two spoke, he threatened to put you through a window."
"I’ll do it," Paul said. "We still work the same crew on the docks. I can swing by, act like it’s routine. Mention the meeting casual-like."
Dominic considered it. Paul was steady, not too close to either side. If anyone could sell it, he could. "Just don’t overplay it. Dario’s paranoid. One wrong word, and he’ll bolt."
They reached the front door, the night air biting as Dominic pushed it open. A black sedan idled at the curb, one of Vincent’s drivers waiting. Sal flicked his cigarette into the gutter. "And if he does bolt?"
Dominic slid into the car, the leather seat cold against his back. "Then we hunt him. And that?" He met Sal’s eyes. "That won’t be clean."
The engine purred as they pulled away. Behind them, in the upstairs window, Vincent watched the taillights fade. The pistol still lay on the desk, oiled and loaded. He picked up the phone, dialed a single digit.
"Prep the basement," he said. "And send someone to watch Dario’s place. I want to know if he so much as sneezes."
The line went dead. Outside, a shadow detached itself from the alley across the street, moving swift and silent toward Dario’s usual haunts.
Tomorrow would come soon enough. But tonight? Tonight was for making sure it came at all.
The alley stank of piss and rotting takeout, but Dario barely registered it. He kept his back to the brick wall, watching the street through the gap between dumpsters. Frankie shifted beside him, her breath warm against his shoulder.
"You sure this is the play?" she murmured.
Dario didn’t answer. The envelope in his jacket pocket held three photographs—Salvatore Greco meeting with Paul Rizzo behind the butcher shop, the exchange of a thick stack of bills, Greco’s hand on Rizzo’s shoulder like a father blessing his son.
It should’ve been enough. But Vincent’s silence after he’d sent the images had stretched too long.
A shadow moved near the mouth of the alley. Dominic Moretti stepped into the dim glow of a streetlight, his suit immaculate, his expression unreadable.
"Consigliere," Dominic said. No greeting, no preamble. Just the title, heavy with implication.
Frankie stiffened. Dario kept his voice level. "You’re not supposed to be here."
Dominic’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Neither are you."
The air between them tightened. Dario had misread the rules—he’d assumed Vincent would act on the evidence alone, that the chain of command would hold. But Dominic’s presence here, now, meant the game had changed.
Frankie’s fingers brushed his wrist, a silent question. He ignored it.
"You’re not here for Greco," Dario said.
Dominic tilted his head. "No. I’m here for you."
A new understanding settled over Dario, cold and precise. This wasn’t about Salvatore’s betrayal. This was about his own.
Dominic reached into his coat. Frankie’s hand went to her piece, but Dario caught her wrist before she could draw.
"Don’t," he said softly.
Dominic pulled out a cigarette, lit it, exhaled smoke into the damp air. "Vincent wants to talk. Now."
The unspoken threat hung between them. Dario had spent years navigating the world of the Morettis, learning its laws, its unspoken codes. But tonight, he’d crossed a line he hadn’t even seen.
He stepped forward. "Lead the way."
Frankie moved to follow, but Dominic’s gaze cut to her. "Not you."
Dario didn’t look back. He knew better than to argue. The rules had been rewritten, and until he understood them, every move was a risk.
Behind him, Frankie’s silence was louder than any protest.
Dominic turned, his polished shoes clicking against the cracked pavement. Dario matched his pace, the weight of the envelope suddenly absurd in his pocket. Proof meant nothing now. The streetlights flickered as they passed, casting jagged shadows against the brick.
"You always were too clever for your own good," Dominic said, taking another drag. The ember glowed like a warning.
Dario kept his eyes ahead. "I followed protocol."
"Did you?" Dominic exhaled a thin stream of smoke. "You went straight to Vincent. Skipped the channels. Skipped me."
A muscle in Dario’s jaw twitched. The consigliere wasn’t just a messenger—he was a gatekeeper. And Dario had walked right past him.
A black sedan idled at the curb. The driver, a thick-necked man Dario didn’t recognize, held the door open. Dominic gestured for him to enter first. A courtesy, or a test.
Dario slid inside. The leather seats smelled of polish and gun oil. Dominic settled beside him, tapping ash into the tray.
"Tell me," Dominic said, "why you thought Vincent would care about Greco’s side deals."
The question was a trap, but the answer was obvious. "Because Rizzo’s with the Bianchis."
Dominic chuckled, low and humorless. "And?"
Dario hesitated. The sedan pulled away from the curb, smooth and silent. The city blurred past the tinted windows.
Dominic leaned closer. "Greco’s been paying Rizzo to lose shipments. Let the Bianchis think they’re stealing from us." He crushed the cigarette. "Vincent knew. I knew. And now you do too."
The realization hit like a sucker punch. The money in the photo wasn’t a betrayal—it was a play. And Dario had just blown the cover on a years-long con.
Dominic studied him. "You thought you were saving the family. Instead, you nearly burned it all down."
The car turned down a dim side street. Dario’s fingers curled against his thigh. All this time, he’d believed loyalty meant exposing rot. But in this world, sometimes loyalty meant keeping your mouth shut.
The sedan slowed. Up ahead, the back entrance of Vincent’s social club loomed, its awning sagging like a tired mouth.
Dominic straightened his cuffs. "When we get inside, you say nothing unless spoken to. Understand?"
Dario nodded, the new rule settling like lead in his gut: In the Moretti family, the truth was currency. And not everyone was meant to spend it.
Vincent Moretti’s office was a study in calculated intimidation.
The mahogany desk gleamed under the harsh light of a single overhead fixture, its surface bare except for a silver letter opener and a ledger bound in cracked leather.
The walls were lined with shelves, their contents a mix of antique books and unmarked boxes that hinted at secrets better left undisturbed.
Vincent sat behind the desk, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.
The door creaked open, and Dominic Moretti stepped inside, followed by Salvatore Greco and Paul Rizzo.
Dominic’s presence was commanding, his broad shoulders filling the doorway as he entered.
Salvatore, lean and sharp-eyed, moved with the precision of a man who knew his worth.
Paul, shorter and stockier, lingered near the door, his hands clasped in front of him like a soldier awaiting orders.
Vincent leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly. "Gentlemen," he said, his voice smooth but edged with authority. "Close the door."