CHAPTER 11 DOMINICS POWER PLAY
Dominic leaned back in his leather chair, the scent of cigar smoke clinging to the dimly lit study.
The brass lamp on the mahogany desk cast sharp shadows across the faces of Raymond Costa and Anthony Moretti as they nursed their bourbon.
Vincent sat apart, silent, his fingers steepled beneath his chin—watching.
"Gentlemen," Dominic began, his voice smooth as aged whiskey, "we have a problem. Dario's been cutting deals without oversight again."
He slid a folder across the desk. Inside, bank statements and shipping manifests detailed unauthorized payments—hundreds of thousands funneled into a shell company tied to Evelyn Crane.
Raymond's thick fingers tapped the papers. "This is reckless." His voice carried the weight of a man who'd spent decades counting every penny the family earned. "If the feds trace this—"
"They won't," Dominic interrupted. "But that's not the point. It's the pattern. Last month, he burned the Genovese alliance over a personal grudge. Now this?" He let the implication hang.
Anthony Moretti exhaled through his nose, his knuckles whitening around his glass. "Vincent gave him leeway because he gets results. But this?" He jabbed at the documents. "This is gambling with our fucking future."
Dominic pressed his advantage. "Dario answers to no one. Not even you, Anthony. Not even Vincent." He let his gaze flick toward their silent leader before continuing. "We survive because we keep the money clean. Because we don't draw attention. He's doing both."
Raymond grunted, rubbing his temple. "If the books go red because of his ego, we're all in cuffs or coffins."
A beat of silence. Then Anthony set his glass down with a decisive click. "Next leadership meeting. We table a vote."
Vincent still hadn't spoken. His expression gave nothing away, but his stillness was its own answer—he was listening.
Dominic hid his satisfaction behind a sip of bourbon. The first domino had fallen.
Across the room, a grandfather clock ticked toward midnight. The rules were clear: loyalty lasted only as long as the money flowed. And Dario had just broken the one law even he couldn't outmaneuver.
Vincent finally moved, uncrossing his legs and reaching for the decanter.
The slow pour of bourbon filled the silence as the others waited, the ice in his glass cracking under the weight of the moment.
He took a deliberate sip before speaking, his voice low but carrying. "You're right about the money."
Raymond shifted in his seat, uneasy under Vincent's measured gaze. "Then you agree?"
"I agree Dario's become a liability," Vincent said, setting his glass down.
"But you're forgetting one thing." He leaned forward, the lamplight carving deep lines into his face.
"He didn't get this far by being stupid. That shell company? Those manifests?"
A faint smirk touched his lips. "They're too clean. Like someone wanted us to find them."
Dominic's fingers tightened around his glass. "You think this is a setup?"
Anthony scoffed. "From who? Dario doesn't play those games."
Vincent's smile didn't reach his eyes. "No. But Evelyn Crane does."
The name landed like a hammer. Raymond's jaw clenched. "That bitch has been circling for years."
"And now she's got Dario by the balls," Vincent murmured. "Or lets him think she does." He tapped the folder. "This isn't just about money. It's about control. She's pitting us against each other."
Dominic forced a laugh, though his knuckles were pale. "So what? We let him bleed us dry?"
Vincent stood, buttoning his suit jacket with slow precision. "We let him dig his own grave. If Evelyn's pulling strings, she'll show her hand soon enough." He paused at the door, glancing back. "But if you're set on a vote, Anthony... make sure you have the numbers."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Dominic exhaled sharply, reaching for the decanter. "He's playing both sides."
Anthony swirled his bourbon, staring at the amber liquid like it held answers. "Or he's giving us enough rope to hang ourselves."
Across the room, the grandfather clock struck midnight. The sound echoed like a verdict.
Anthony set his glass down hard enough to crack the crystal base. The grandfather clock's chime still hung in the air like a threat. "You're telling me the vote's already rigged?"
Dario leaned against the bookshelf, tracing the spine of a ledger with one finger. "Not rigged. Just accounted for." His voice stayed level, but Evelyn saw the way his thumb pressed into the leather binding—white at the knuckle.
Vincent exhaled through his nose, rolling a silver coin across his knuckles. "Evelyn's been whispering in ears we can't even see." The coin paused mid-flip. "You misread the room, Anthony. This isn't about numbers. It's about who holds the markers."
Dominic snorted from the armchair, swirling ice in his glass. "And here I thought we just had to count hands."
A new rule, then. Evelyn watched the realization hit Anthony like a physical blow—his shoulders tightening under his tailored suit. The vote wasn't a democratic process; it was a ledger of debts called due. She'd spent weeks ensuring every "aye" came pre-purchased.
Raymond cleared his throat, adjusting his cufflinks. "The Costa family votes with the Morettis, of course. But my cousin's dockworkers..." He let the implication hang.
Anthony's jaw worked. "How many?"
Dario's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Enough."
The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the silence. Evelyn resisted the urge to check her watch. Let them sweat.
Vincent finally broke the quiet. "So we understand each other." He pocketed the coin. "The world doesn't run on fairness. It runs on leverage."
Dominic raised his glass in a mock toast. "To newly clarified priorities."
Anthony's hand flexed at his side, empty now that he'd shattered his drink. Evelyn noted the way his gaze flicked to the door—not planning escape, but calculating who might still be swayed.
Good. Let him try.
Dario pushed off the bookshelf. "I'll have the tally by morning." He didn't look at Evelyn as he left, but she felt the challenge in his retreating back.
The game wasn't over. Just the rules.
Anthony took a slow step toward the fireplace, the embers casting long shadows across his face. "Leverage," he repeated, as if tasting the word. Then he turned, sudden as a blade flicking open. "But you forgot one thing."
Evelyn arched a brow. "Did I?"
"The Costa dockworkers." Anthony's smile was thin. "Raymond's cousin doesn't own them. The harbormaster does."
Vincent's coin stilled between his fingers. Dominic lowered his glass.
Evelyn kept her expression smooth, but her pulse jumped—not at the revelation, but at the miscalculation. She'd assumed the harbormaster was a neutral party, a bureaucrat content to take bribes and stay out of the fray. But if Anthony knew to name him directly...
Raymond shifted uncomfortably. "The harbormaster's a ghost. Doesn't take meetings."
"He took mine." Anthony reached into his jacket and tossed a folded slip of paper onto the table. Evelyn didn't need to open it to recognize the harbormaster's seal—wax stamped with the outline of a ship's wheel.
Dario had paused in the doorway, half-turned back. Evelyn caught the minute tightening around his eyes. A crack in the facade.
Vincent picked up the paper, unfolded it, and let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Well. Seems we've been negotiating with the wrong ghosts."
Dominic leaned forward, ice clinking. "What's the ask?"
Anthony's gaze locked onto Evelyn. "Not an ask. A trade. The harbormaster wants a seat at the table. Not for votes. For shipments."
Evelyn's nails bit into her palm. The harbormaster didn't deal in politics; he dealt in cargo. In contraband. And if he was stepping into the light now, it meant the game had just expanded beyond the ledger.
Vincent tossed the paper back onto the table. "You always were better at finding the back doors, Anthony."
Evelyn forced a smile. "How fortunate for us all." But her mind was already racing through the implications. The harbormaster's influence reached beyond the city—beyond their city. If he was aligning with Anthony, the markers she'd called in might not cover the debts after all.
Dario finally turned fully away, his voice drifting back as he disappeared into the hall. "Morning just got interesting."
The clock ticked. The fire crackled. And Evelyn, for the first time in years, felt the board tilt beneath her.
Dominic Moretti leaned against the polished mahogany bar, the faint scent of whiskey and cigar smoke clinging to the air.
The room was alive with the low hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter.
But Dominic’s attention was fixed on the man who had just entered—Raymond Costa.
Raymond moved with the kind of confidence that came from years of navigating the city’s underworld. His tailored suit fit him perfectly, and his sharp eyes scanned the room with calculated precision. Dominic straightened as Raymond approached, his presence commanding immediate attention.
"Dominic," Raymond greeted, his voice smooth but carrying an edge. "Been a while."
"Raymond," Dominic replied, nodding slightly. He gestured to the bar. "Drink?"
"Not tonight," Raymond said, his tone clipped. "Business first."
Dominic’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. He knew better than to push Raymond when he was in this mood. Instead, he motioned for Raymond to follow him toward a quieter corner of the room, away from prying ears.
Once they were seated, Dominic leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "What’s on your mind?"
Raymond didn’t waste time with pleasantries. "Dario’s operation costs are getting out of hand. You know that, right?"
Dominic’s expression didn’t change, but he felt a flicker of unease. "Dario’s always been thorough. You can’t argue with his results."
"Thorough?" Raymond’s laugh was dry, devoid of humor. "He’s burning through resources like they’re endless. And now he’s got Anthony Moretti wrapped around his finger. You think that’s coincidence?"