CHAPTER 7 TOMMYS RECKLESS VOW
The whiskey burned going down, but Tommy Caruso welcomed it. He sat alone at the scarred oak bar of The Anchor, Frankie’s favorite dive, staring at the chipped glass in his hand. The same glass Frankie had drunk from the night before Dominic Moretti put two bullets in his chest.
"Another," Tommy said, sliding the glass toward the bartender. His voice sounded raw, like he'd been shouting. Maybe he had. The last three days blurred together—Frankie’s funeral, the empty casket, the way Dario had gripped his shoulder afterward and said, "We handle this clean."
Like Frankie was just another problem to be managed.
Ez Ward slid onto the stool beside him, setting down a black coffee instead of a drink. "You look like hell."
Tommy didn’t turn. "I’m fine."
"You’re not fine. You’re sitting in Frankie’s spot, drinking his poison, and staring at the door like you’re waiting for him to walk in." Ez’s voice dropped. "He’s not coming back."
The glass cracked under Tommy’s grip. Whiskey seeped between his fingers. "I know that."
Ez watched the bartender mop up the spill, then leaned in. "Then what’s this? Because it ain’t grieving. It’s the quiet before you do something stupid."
Tommy wiped his hand on his jeans. The anger was a live wire under his skin, sharp and humming. "Dominic doesn’t get to walk away from this."
"Christ." Ez exhaled hard. "You think Dario doesn’t have a plan?"
"Dario’s playing the long game. I’m not." Tommy pulled a folded photo from his jacket—Dominic leaving his mistress’s apartment, caught mid-laugh by the surveillance camera. "He doesn’t even look guilty."
Ez snatched the photo. "Where the hell did you get this?"
"Doesn’t matter." Tommy took it back, tracing the edge where Frankie’s blood had dried under his nails three days ago. "I’ve been watching him. He’s got a routine—Tuesdays and Thursdays at the Red Lotus, Sundays at his uncle’s place in Bay Ridge. Guards are lazy after midnight."
Ez’s knuckles whitened around his coffee cup. "You’re talking about hitting a Moretti. That’s suicide."
"Frankie was family," Tommy said, too loud. A couple at the end of the bar glanced over. He lowered his voice. "Dominic put him in the ground over a fucking territory dispute. You telling me that’s just business?"
Ez hesitated. That was the problem with Ez—he thought too much. "I’m telling you Dario will bury you himself if you fuck this up."
Tommy stood, tossing cash on the bar. "Then he better not find out."
Ez grabbed his wrist. "You’re not listening. Dominic’s not some street-level dealer. You miss, and Vincent will burn half the city to find you."
Tommy yanked free. "I won’t miss."
The door swung shut behind him, cutting off Ez’s reply. Outside, the rain had started, turning the sidewalk slick. Tommy lit a cigarette, the flame trembling in his cupped hands.
Across the street, the neon sign of the Red Lotus flickered. Right on schedule, Dominic’s black Escalade rolled up at 9:15 PM, the driver holding an umbrella as he stepped out.
Tommy exhaled smoke, committing the timing to memory.
He wouldn’t miss.
The neon buzz of the Red Lotus painted Dominic’s face in garish red as he stepped under the awning, shaking rain from his coat. Dario watched from the sedan’s passenger seat, fingers tapping the armrest—once, twice—before stilling.
"Clockwork," Tommy muttered around his cigarette. "Every Thursday, nine-fifteen."
Frankie leaned forward from the backseat, his breath fogging the glass. "You sure this ain’t just a meet with the Koreans? That place serves more than noodles."
Dario didn’t answer. He’d misread the pattern before, assuming Dominic’s visits were about the shipments.
But the ledger in his lap told a different story—dates and amounts circled in red, all matching nights when the Red Lotus’s kitchen staff clocked out early.
A backdoor transaction, then. Not the Koreans. Someone else.
Vincent’s voice crackled through the earpiece. "Status."
"Still waiting on the handoff," Dario said.
A pause. Then, quieter: "You’re sure about this?"
Dario exhaled through his nose. Vincent wasn’t asking about the ledger. He was asking about the gun tucked against Dario’s ribs.
Across the street, Dominic handed the umbrella to his driver and disappeared inside. The Escalade’s taillights flared as it pulled away—no backup, no witnesses. Just like last time.
Tommy crushed his cigarette. "We doing this or what?"
Frankie’s knee bounced. "If he’s skimming, that’s Moretti money. That’s your money."
Dario thumbed the ledger’s edge. Here was the rule he’d newly understood: Dominic wasn’t stealing from the family. He was paying someone off. The amounts were too precise, the timing too clean. Protection, maybe. Or silence.
Vincent’s voice again, tight. "Dario."
"Moving," Dario said, and opened the door.
Rain needled his skin as he crossed the street, Tommy and Frankie falling into step behind him. The Red Lotus’s door chimed—a cheap, cheerful sound at odds with the weight in his chest. Inside, steam curled from untouched bowls of pho. The hostess’s smile faltered when she saw them.
Dominic sat at the back booth, chopsticks poised over a spread of dishes. His eyes flicked up, then past Dario’s shoulder to where Tommy stood, blocking the exit.
"Dario." Dominic wiped his mouth. "You here to eat, or you here to make a scene?"
Dario slid into the booth across from him. The vinyl creaked. "Neither." He laid the ledger on the table between them. "I’m here to understand."
Dominic’s jaw worked. For a second, Dario thought he’d deny it. Then his shoulders dropped. "You always were too damn sharp for your own good."
Behind the counter, a cook dropped a pan. The clatter echoed like a gunshot.
Tommy’s hand drifted toward his waistband. Frankie shifted, cutting off the kitchen’s sightline.
Dario didn’t move. "Who’s getting paid, Dom?"
Dominic’s laugh was hollow. "You really think I’d tell you?"
"No," Dario said. "But I think you’ll tell Vincent."
The color drained from Dominic’s face. That was the other rule—the one Dario had always known. No one lied to the Boss twice.
Outside, a car door slammed. Too soon for the Escalade’s return.
Dario didn’t turn. He didn’t have to. The way Dominic’s gaze darted to the window said everything.
Company. And not theirs.
Tommy Caruso leaned against the chipped brick wall of the alley behind the diner, the glow of his cigarette flickering in the damp air.
He exhaled smoke through his nose, watching Ez Ward pick at the label of his beer bottle.
The kid was jumpy, fingers tapping against glass, eyes darting toward the mouth of the alley every few seconds like he expected Dominic Moretti himself to materialize from the shadows.
"You're gonna wear a hole in that," Tommy said, nodding at the half-peeled label.
Ez stiffened, then forced a laugh too loud for the quiet between them. "Yeah, well. Been a long fucking night."
Tommy took another drag, letting the silence stretch until Ez's shoulders crept up toward his ears. Then he flicked the cigarette into a puddle, where it died with a hiss. "You know why I called you out here?"
Ez swallowed. "Figured it wasn't to admire the scenery."
"Smart kid." Tommy stepped closer, close enough to smell the sweat and cheap aftershave on him. "Dominic Moretti's gotta go."
Ez's fingers froze on the bottle. "That's—"
"Not a question," Tommy cut in. His voice stayed low, easy, like he was discussing the weather. "It's happening. And you're gonna help."
Ez's throat worked. "Vincent find out what he did with those shipments?"
Tommy smiled, slow and sharp. "Vincent doesn't know shit. This is a private arrangement."
The kid's face went pale. "Dario—"
"Isn't in the loop." Tommy watched the realization hit Ez like a punch—no Dario, no Vincent, just Tommy Caruso and a plan that would get them both killed if it went sideways. "Dominic's been skimming for months. Setting up his own deals. You really think he stops there?"
Ez shook his head, automatic.
"Damn right he doesn't." Tommy leaned in, close enough that Ez flinched. "He moves on Frankie next. Then you. Then me. You wanna wait around for that?"
Ez's fingers tightened around the bottle. "How?"
"Friday. He's meeting Anthony at the warehouse on Twelfth." Tommy pulled a folded slip of paper from his pocket, pressed it into Ez's damp palm. "You show up early. You disable the cameras. And then you walk away like you were never there."
Ez stared at the paper like it might bite him. "And if I say no?"
Tommy laughed, clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger. "Then I tell Dominic you've been feeding intel to the Malone crew. See how long you last."
The bottle slipped from Ez's grip, shattered on the pavement. Glass glittered between them like broken teeth.
"Smart kid," Tommy said again, and walked away.
Behind him, Ez didn't move. Didn't call after him. Just stood there in the alley, breathing too fast, with Tommy's plan burning a hole in his hand.
Tommy was almost to the street when Ez finally spoke, his voice cracking like the glass at his feet. "You're wrong about one thing."
Tommy paused, half-turning. The neon from the diner sign painted the side of his face in red and blue. "Yeah?"
Ez crumpled the paper in his fist. "Dominic doesn't move on Frankie next." He took a step forward, his shadow stretching long and thin across the wet pavement. "He already did."
Tommy went very still. The hum of the diner's refrigeration unit kicked on, drowning out the distant traffic. "Say that again."
"Last week." Ez's mouth twisted. "Frankie's in the hospital. 'Car accident.' You really didn't know?"
The lie was obvious—Tommy always knew—but Ez watched his face anyway, searching for a crack.
Tommy found his cigarettes, took his time lighting one. The flame trembled just enough to matter. "Guess that means we're ahead of schedule." He blew smoke toward the sky. "You still got that cousin in the coroner's office?"
Ez's breath hitched. "What the hell do you need him for?"