CHAPTER 13 TOMMY MAKES HIS MOVE #2
He wore a tailored coat, the kind that screamed money, and carried himself with the confidence of someone who’d never had to doubt his place in the world.
Tommy’s jaw tightened. He hated that arrogance.
Dominic paused, his head tilting slightly as if he sensed something was off.
Tommy held his breath, his fingers curling around the hilt of the knife tucked into his belt.
He couldn’t afford to screw this up. Dario had been clear: infiltrate Dominic’s routine, gather intel, and report back. No mistakes. No excuses.
“You gonna stand there all night, Caruso?” Dominic’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and mocking. “Or you planning to make yourself useful?”
Tommy froze, his heart pounding. How the hell had Dominic known he was there? He stepped out of the shadows, his expression carefully neutral. “Just keeping an eye on things,” he said, keeping his tone light. “You never know who’s lurking around these parts.”
Dominic smirked, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Right. Because you’re the model of vigilance.” He took a step closer, his gaze sweeping over Tommy like he was assessing a piece of livestock. “Dario send you? Or you just freelancing tonight?”
Tommy forced a smile, though it felt more like baring his teeth. “Just looking out for the family. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?”
Dominic chuckled, a low, humorless sound. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.” He turned away, dismissing Tommy with a wave of his hand. “Stay out of my way, Caruso. You’re not ready for this game.”
Tommy’s grip tightened on the knife, his knuckles whitening.
He wanted to lunge, to wipe that smug look off Dominic’s face, but he forced himself to stay put.
Dario’s orders echoed in his mind, a reminder of what was at stake.
This wasn’t about pride. It was about leverage.
And Dominic had just handed him a piece of it.
As Dominic walked away, Tommy pulled out his phone and snapped a quick photo of the man’s retreating figure.
He’d need proof for Dario, something concrete to show he’d done his job.
But as he slipped the phone back into his pocket, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Dominic had been testing him.
The bastard knew something was up, and Tommy wasn’t sure if he’d passed or failed.
He glanced down at his hand, still clenched around the knife.
The blade was cool against his palm, a reminder of the stakes.
Tommy exhaled slowly, forcing himself to relax.
This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. Dominic might think he had the upper hand, but Tommy wasn’t going to back down. Not now. Not ever.
The sound of a car engine rumbled in the distance, pulling Tommy out of his thoughts.
He glanced toward the street, his eyes narrowing.
Whoever was coming, they weren’t part of the plan.
He slipped the knife back into its sheath and melted into the shadows, his mind racing.
Something was about to go down—he could feel it in his bones.
And when it did, Tommy Caruso would be ready.
Tommy kept to the shadows, his back pressed against the brick wall of the alley.
The car engine he’d heard earlier had cut out, but the silence that followed was worse.
It wasn’t empty—it was loaded, like the air before a storm.
He shifted his weight, fingers brushing the hilt of the knife sheathed at his side.
He didn’t draw it yet. Drawing meant intention, and intention meant he was already too late.
The first sound was barely audible—a scrape of shoe against pavement. Tommy froze, his breath shallow. He counted the seconds, waiting for the next tell. It came in the form of a low, muffled cough. Too close. He wasn’t alone.
He pivoted, slipping deeper into the alley, but the narrow space betrayed him.
Two figures materialized at the far end, blocking his exit.
They moved with purpose, their silhouettes sharp against the dim light filtering in from the street.
Tommy didn’t need to see their faces to know who’d sent them.
The way they carried themselves—like they owned the ground they walked on—was enough. Rizzo’s men.
Tommy turned, but the other end of the alley wasn’t safe either.
Another pair of men stepped into view, cutting off his retreat.
He was boxed in, four against one. His fingers twitched toward the knife again, but he forced himself to stay calm.
Drawing now would only escalate this. He needed to think.
“Caruso,” one of the men called, his voice low but carrying. “Boss wants a word.”
Tommy didn’t answer. He scanned the alley, looking for any advantage—a loose brick, a trash can, anything he could use. But the space was clean, almost unnaturally so. Someone had planned this. They’d picked the spot carefully, ensuring he’d have nowhere to run.
The man who’d spoken stepped closer, his hands loose at his sides. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
Tommy’s jaw tightened. “Tell Rizzo I’m busy.”
The man chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “You’re not in a position to negotiate.”
Tommy’s hand shot to his knife, but the man was faster. He lunged, closing the distance before Tommy could draw. The impact knocked the breath from Tommy’s lungs, and he stumbled back, his shoulder slamming into the wall. The knife clattered to the ground.
The other men moved in, their movements coordinated. Tommy swung, landing a solid punch to one man’s jaw, but the others grabbed him before he could follow through. They pinned his arms, their grip like iron. Tommy thrashed, but there were too many of them. He couldn’t break free.
“Enough,” the first man barked, his voice sharp. He stepped forward, his face inches from Tommy’s. “You’re coming with us. Rizzo’s orders.”
Tommy glared at him, his chest heaving. “You think Dario’s just gonna let this slide?”
The man smirked. “Dario’s not here.”
Tommy’s stomach dropped. They’d planned this, timed it perfectly. They knew Dario was out of reach. And now they had him.
The men dragged him toward a waiting car, its engine idling softly. Tommy fought every step, but it was no use. They shoved him into the backseat, one of them sliding in beside him while the others took the front. The doors slammed shut, locking him in.
The man beside him leaned in, his voice cold. “You’re lucky Rizzo wants you alive. But trust me, Caruso—you’re gonna wish he didn’t.”
Tommy stared out the window, his mind racing. He needed a plan, a way to turn this around. But for now, he was trapped. And Dominic Moretti—his boss, the man he’d sworn loyalty to—wasn’t here to save him.
Tommy clenched his fists against his thighs as the car sped through the city. The leather seat creaked under his shifting weight. The man beside him—Paul Rizzo—had a pistol resting on his knee, index finger tapping the slide like it was a drumbeat.
Ezra Ward was waiting when they pulled up to the warehouse.
He stood under the flickering sodium light, hands in his coat pockets, breath fogging in the cold air.
The moment Tommy was shoved out of the car, Ezra grabbed his elbow and steered him toward the side door.
"Move fast," Ezra muttered. "Vitale's inside."
The warehouse smelled of motor oil and damp concrete. Dario Vitale stood near a metal worktable, his suit jacket unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He didn't look up when they entered, just kept flipping through a file.
Ezra cleared his throat. "Dario."
Vitale turned a page. "You're late."
"Because we had a problem." Ezra's voice was tight. "Dominic's got men hitting our corners. Six of ours are in the hospital. Two aren't waking up."
Vitale finally looked up. His expression didn't change, but his fingers stilled on the edge of the paper. "Where?"
"All over. But the worst was the deli on 8th. They torched it after."
Tommy swallowed hard. That was his crew's spot. He should've been there.
Vitale set the file down. "Did he say when?"
Ezra blinked. "What?"
"Dominic. Did he say when he decided to make this move?"
Ezra shook his head. "No. Just that it's—"
"A disaster," Vitale finished. He turned to Tommy. "You knew this was coming."
Tommy stiffened. "I didn't—"
"You're his favorite attack dog. He didn't whisper a word? Not even when he sent you after Evelyn?"
Tommy's pulse jumped. He hadn't told anyone about that.
Vitale didn't wait for an answer. He pulled a burner phone from his pocket and tossed it to Ezra. "Call Vincent. Tell him we need a sit-down. Dominic's not waiting for the will reading anymore."
Ezra hesitated. "You think he's making his play now?"
Vitale's smile didn't reach his eyes. "He just did."
From the shadows near the back door, Anthony Moretti stepped into the light. His knuckles were raw, fresh blood smeared across his shirt cuffs. "Then we answer," he said softly.
Vitale nodded once. "Get Tommy cleaned up. Dominic wants him scared? Fine. Let's give him scared."
Tommy's stomach dropped. He knew that tone.
Vitale wasn't planning defense.
He was planning a massacre.
Ezra caught Tommy by the shoulder before he could back away. "You got a problem with that?"
Tommy forced himself to meet Ezra's gaze. "No."
Anthony wiped his hands on a rag, smearing the blood into dark streaks. "Good. Because you're walking into the deli tomorrow."
"The hell I am," Tommy snapped. "It's ash."
"Exactly." Anthony tossed the rag onto the worktable. "Dominic burned it to send a message. So you stand in the rubble where everyone can see you. Let him know his little stunt didn't scare shit out of us."
Tommy's jaw tightened. "He'll put a bullet in me the second I show my face."
Vitale picked up the file again, flipping to a page marked with a red tab. "Not if he thinks you're there to switch sides."
The warehouse seemed to tilt. Tommy stared at him. "You want me to turn rat?"
Ezra snorted. "We want you to look like one."
Vitale tapped the page. "Dominic's got a leak in his crew. Someone's been skimming off the top. He just doesn't know it yet."
Anthony leaned in, voice dropping. "You're gonna be the guy who tells him."
Tommy shook his head. "He'll never buy it."
"He will," Vitale said, "when you hand him the books from the 12th Street warehouse. The real ones."