CHAPTER 2 VINCENTS WAVERING TRUST #2
Paul obeyed, shutting the door with a soft click. The room felt smaller now, the air thick with unspoken tension. Dominic took the chair directly across from Vincent, his movements deliberate, while Salvatore leaned against the bookshelf, his arms crossed.
Vincent’s gaze swept over them, lingering on each man for a moment before he spoke.
"We have a problem," he began, his tone calm but carrying the weight of someone who didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard.
"The Greco shipment was intercepted last night. Half the product’s gone, and two of our men are dead."
Salvatore’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Dominic’s expression remained neutral, though his fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the arm of his chair. Paul shifted his weight, his eyes darting between the others as if trying to gauge the mood.
Vincent continued, his voice steady. "This isn’t just a hit on our operations. This is a message. Someone’s trying to send us a signal, and I want to know who."
Dominic leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "Any leads?"
Vincent’s lips curved into a faint smile, but there was no warmth in it. "That’s why you’re here. Salvatore, your people were handling the shipment. What do you know?"
Salvatore straightened, his voice crisp. "My men were ambushed. They didn’t see it coming. Whoever did this knew the route, the timing, everything. This wasn’t random."
Vincent nodded, his expression thoughtful. "So it’s someone on the inside. Or someone with connections."
Dominic’s fingers stopped tapping. "You think it’s Dario?"
Vincent’s gaze flicked to Dominic, sharp and assessing. "Dario’s loyal. But he’s also ambitious. And he’s been making moves lately that I can’t ignore."
Salvatore’s brow furrowed. "You think he’d betray us?"
Vincent leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "I think Dario operates in shades of gray. He’s always been more interested in the big picture than the rules. But if he’s stepping out of line, I need to know."
Paul cleared his throat, drawing Vincent’s attention. "What do you want us to do?"
Vincent’s smile returned, colder this time. "Watch him. Every move, every conversation. If Dario’s involved in this, I want proof. And if he’s not…" He paused, letting the silence stretch. "Then we find out who is."
Dominic nodded, his expression grim. "We’ll handle it."
Salvatore pushed off the bookshelf, his posture tense. "What about the shipment? We can’t afford to lose more product."
Vincent’s gaze hardened. "Double the security on the next one. And make sure the routes are changed. I don’t want any more surprises."
Paul stepped forward, his voice tentative. "Should we bring Dario in? Question him directly?"
Vincent’s eyes narrowed. "Not yet. Let him think he’s still in control. People make mistakes when they’re overconfident."
Dominic stood, his presence filling the room. "We’ll get to the bottom of this."
Vincent leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "See that you do. And remember—loyalty is everything in this family. Anyone who forgets that pays the price."
The men exchanged glances, the weight of Vincent’s words settling over them. Dominic turned and headed for the door, Salvatore and Paul following in his wake. As the door closed behind them, Vincent’s gaze lingered on the empty space, his fingers drumming softly on the desk.
The game was in motion, and every move mattered.
Dominic strode into the back room of Moretti’s social club, the leather folder in his grip stiff with tension. The air smelled of cigar smoke and spilled whiskey, the usual backdrop to their business, but tonight it carried an edge.
Frankie Malone leaned against the bar, watching with narrowed eyes as Dominic dropped the folder onto the table in front of Dario Vitale. "You got something to share with the class?" Frankie asked, voice dry.
"Plenty," Dominic said.
Dario didn’t touch the folder. He sat back in his chair, fingers steepled, his expression unreadable. "Dominic," he acknowledged, voice smooth. "You look like a man with a problem."
"Not mine," Dominic said, flipping the folder open. "Yours."
Inside lay photographs—grainy but unmistakable.
Luca Ferrara’s warehouse, the shattered windows, the scorched brick where someone had tossed a Molotov through the loading bay.
There were time-stamped surveillance stills, too—men in dark clothes moving with purpose, faces obscured but builds familiar.
Dominic tapped one image. "Your crew. Your operation. And not one fucking word about it cleared through Vincent."
Salvatore and Paul flanked the table, arms crossed. Silent, but their presence was weight enough.
Dario didn’t glance at the photos. "Luca’s been skimming shipments," he said, as if explaining the weather. "Thought I’d save Vincent the trouble of deciding what to do about it."
"That’s not your call," Dominic said.
Frankie snorted, swirling his drink. "Since when?"
Dominic shot him a look. "Since always. You don’t go to war without the Boss’s say-so."
Dario finally leaned forward, just enough to slide one photo toward himself. "Wasn’t a war. Just a reminder." His thumb brushed the edge of the image. "Luca got the message."
"Yeah?" Dominic shoved another sheet across the table—a scribbled note, Luca’s handwriting. Tell Moretti this isn’t over. "Looks like he took it real well."
For the first time, Dario’s expression flickered. Not concern—calculation. "You showed this to Vincent yet?"
"Not yet," Dominic said. "Figured you might want to explain it first."
Frankie pushed off the bar. "Or," he said, "we could all remember that Luca’s a greedy little shit who’s been begging for a bullet, and maybe Dario just saved us the paperwork."
Salvatore shook his head. "Doesn’t matter if Luca deserved it. Rules are rules."
Paul nodded. "Unauthorized strikes bring heat. From the Ferraras, from the cops, from our own people wondering who’s really giving orders."
Dario’s gaze never left Dominic. "You telling me Vincent would’ve said no?"
Dominic smirked. "I’m telling you he wasn’t asked."
The silence stretched, thick enough to choke on.
Then Frankie sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Fuck it. You want to tattle, go ahead. But don’t act like this is about rules." He jabbed a finger at Dominic. "This is about you not liking who’s got Vincent’s ear."
Dominic didn’t flinch. "This is about a chain of command. You break it, you pay."
Dario stood, smoothing his jacket. "Then I’ll go explain it to Vincent." He paused at the door, glancing back. "But Dominic?" His voice was soft. "Next time you come at me, bring more than photos."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Frankie drained his glass. "Well," he said. "That could’ve gone worse."
Dominic gathered the evidence, jaw tight. He didn’t say what they all knew—this wasn’t over.
It was just beginning.
Sal Greco leaned against the bar, swirling his whiskey like he was waiting for the ice to confess something.
The backroom of The Velvet was quiet except for the distant clatter of dishes—Vincent’s people clearing out after the meeting.
Dario had left first, which meant he’d won something. Greco hated that.
Frankie slid onto the stool beside him, nudging the bottle closer. "You look like a man with concerns."
"About Dario?" Greco snorted. "Always." He knocked back the drink, letting the burn settle before he continued. "That crew of his—private little army. You notice how they don’t blink unless he tells them to?"
Frankie poured himself two fingers. "They’re loyal. That’s the point."
"Loyal to him. Not the family." Greco tapped the bar with one thick finger. "Vincent’s got rules. Dario’s got exceptions. How long before those exceptions become the problem?"
Dominic emerged from the back hall, rolling his sleeves down like he was covering up evidence. He caught the tail end of the conversation and smirked. "You’re just pissed because his guys don’t take your bets."
Greco ignored the jab. "You think I’m wrong? Rizzo’s got a crew. Anthony’s got a crew. They answer to Vincent first. Dario’s boys?" He shook his head. "They answer to Dario. Period."
Frankie swirled his drink, watching the light catch the amber liquid. "You saying he’s building something separate?"
"I’m saying Vincent’s not stupid. He’ll notice." Greco leaned in, lowering his voice even though the room was empty. "You know why Morettis stay on top? Because nobody gets too big. Not even the consigliere."
Dominic’s smile faded. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the screen. "You want me to pass this along? Because it sounds like you’re angling for a promotion."
Greco spread his hands. "Just pointing out the obvious. Dario’s got his own rules, his own people, his own way of handling things. That’s dangerous."
Frankie set his glass down with a sharp click. "Or it’s what keeps us ahead. You ever think maybe that’s why Vincent lets it slide?"
"Until he doesn’t." Greco pushed off the bar, straightening his jacket. "Tell me something—when was the last time Dario asked permission?"
The silence stretched. Dominic pocketed his phone.
Greco smirked. "Yeah. Thought so." He tossed a twenty on the bar. "Next round’s on me. Think about it."
He left them there, the door swinging shut behind him. Frankie exhaled, rubbing his temple. "He’s not wrong."
Dominic scowled. "Doesn’t mean he’s right."
"Doesn’t mean Vincent won’t listen." Frankie picked up the bottle, considering it. "Greco’s got the old man’s ear. If he starts whispering about loyalty..."
Dominic snatched the whiskey from him and poured another shot. "Then we’ll deal with it."
Frankie watched him drink. "You sure about that?"
Dominic didn’t answer.
Outside, Greco lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke into the cold air. The street was empty, but the weight of the conversation clung like a second coat. Dario’s people were good—too good. And in their world, that was the kind of problem that got solved with a bullet, not a promotion.
He flicked the ash off, smiling to himself. Let someone else deliver the warning. He’d planted the seed.
That was enough.