CHAPTER 24 THE COUPS FINAL MOVE
Dominic leaned back in the leather chair, his fingers drumming against the polished mahogany desk.
The faint hum of the air conditioner filled the room, but it did nothing to cool the tension thickening between him and Vincent.
"Dario's become a liability," Dominic said, his voice low but deliberate.
"He operates like he’s untouchable. Like he doesn’t answer to anyone. Not even you."
Vincent sat across from him, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the flickering flame of the cigar resting in the ashtray.
He didn’t respond immediately, and Dominic didn’t rush him.
Silence was a tool Dominic wielded as effectively as any blade.
Finally, Vincent exhaled sharply. "He’s the best we’ve got. You know that. Without him, half our operations would’ve collapsed years ago."
"That’s exactly the problem," Dominic countered, leaning forward.
His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it now, sharp enough to cut through Vincent’s reluctance.
"He’s too good. Too indispensable. And he knows it. You think he doesn’t see the power he’s accumulated? You think he doesn’t know how much leverage he has over us?"
Vincent’s fingers twitched, his gaze flicking to the window where the city lights blurred into a haze of neon and shadow. "He’s loyal," he said, though the words sounded hollow even to him.
"Loyalty’s a luxury we can’t afford when it comes with strings attached," Dominic said flatly. "He’s not merely solving problems anymore, Vincent. He’s creating them. And if we don’t handle this now, he’ll handle us. Permanently."
Vincent’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists on the desk.
He hated this. Hated the cold calculus of it, the way Dominic could strip a man’s worth down to a single question: Is he more useful alive or dead?
But Dominic wasn’t wrong. That was the worst part.
Dario had crossed lines—lines Vincent had drawn—and he’d done it without hesitation, without apology.
"Fine," Vincent said finally, the word heavy with reluctance. "But it has to be clean. No mistakes."
Dominic nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "It’ll be handled."
Across the city, Dario sat in the dim light of Marco’s old safehouse, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand.
The room smelled of stale cigarettes and old blood, a reminder of too many nights spent cleaning up messes that shouldn’t have been his to fix.
Marco’s contacts had been thorough—too thorough—and the message they’d delivered was clear: Vincent had signed off on his elimination.
Dario set the glass down, his fingers tracing the edge of the table.
He’d known this was coming. Known it the moment he’d started making decisions without Vincent’s approval, the moment he’d stopped asking for permission.
But knowing didn’t make it easier. If he acted now, if he struck first, he’d be crossing a line he couldn’t uncross.
There would be no going back, no pretending this was just another job.
He stood, his movements deliberate, and walked to the window. The city sprawled below him, a labyrinth of shadows and secrets. He’d spent his life navigating it, manipulating it, bending it to his will. But this—this was different. This wasn’t strategy. This was survival.
"Dario." Marco’s voice cut through the silence, gravelly and sharp. He stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, his expression grim. "You know what you’re thinking? It’s fucking stupid."
Dario didn’t turn around. "It’s the only move I’ve got."
"You go after Vincent, you’re not merely burning bridges. You’re torching the whole damn city."
"Then I’ll burn it," Dario said quietly, his voice steady. "Better that than let them take me out like some dog in the street."
Marco swore under his breath, but he didn’t argue. He knew better than anyone that once Dario made up his mind, there was no talking him out of it. "Fine. But if you’re gonna do this, you better make sure you’re ready for what comes after."
Dario’s lips curved into a humorless smile. "Oh, I’m ready."
Vincent Moretti’s office smelled like cigars and old money, the kind of place where deals got made and men got buried. Dario stood by the window, watching the city lights flicker below, while Marco leaned against the wall like a pissed-off shadow.
Dominic Moretti, Vincent’s eldest, tapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair. "You’re sure about this?"
Dario didn’t turn. "I don’t say things I’m not sure of."
Vincent exhaled smoke, his gaze steady. "The Russians won’t take this lying down."
"Good," Dario said. "Let them stand up so we can put them down cleaner."
Marco snorted. "You make it sound like a fucking ballet."
"It is." Dario finally faced them. "They move, we move. Only difference is, we’re better at it."
Vincent studied him, then nodded to Dominic. "Get Anthony in here."
Dominic pushed out of his chair and left without a word. Marco’s jaw tightened. "You bringing the kid into this?"
"He’s not a kid," Vincent said. "He’s a Moretti."
Dario had misread that. He’d assumed Vincent would keep his youngest son clear of the bloodier work—protection, not out of weakness, but strategy. Anthony was sharp, but untested. A liability in a fight.
Now he understood. This wasn’t about keeping Anthony safe. It was about making sure he could handle what came next.
Anthony walked in, his suit immaculate, his expression carefully blank. "You wanted me?"
Vincent stubbed out his cigar. "Dario’s going to war. You’re going with him."
Anthony didn’t flinch. "Where?"
"The docks," Dario said. "Midnight."
Marco shoved off the wall. "You’re really doing this?"
Dario met his gaze. "You got a better idea?"
"Yeah. Not starting a fucking massacre."
"It’s not a massacre if they’re armed." Dario turned back to Anthony. "You ever put a man in the ground?"
Anthony’s fingers twitched, just once. "No."
"Tonight’s the night."
Vincent watched his son, then nodded to Dario. "You’ll show him how it’s done."
Not a request. A test—for Anthony, for Dario. A newly drawn line in the sand.
Marco muttered a curse under his breath.
Dario ignored him. "We leave in an hour."
Anthony swallowed, then nodded.
Dominic returned, a file in his hand. "Intel says the Russians have six men stationed there. Armed."
"Good," Dario said. "More witnesses to spread the message."
Vincent leaned back in his chair. "Don’t miss."
Dario didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
Marco grabbed his arm as they left the office. "You’re really dragging the kid into this?"
"He’s not a kid," Dario said, echoing Vincent. "And this world doesn’t wait for you to grow up."
Marco’s grip tightened. "If he freezes—"
"Then he dies," Dario said flatly. "Better to find out now."
Marco let go, his face grim. "Fuck."
Dario adjusted his cufflinks. "Get the car ready."
Anthony waited by the elevators, his hands clenched at his sides. Dario didn’t reassure him. There was no point.
The rules were clear. You learned fast, or you didn’t learn at all.
And Dario had just misread the most important one.
Dominic Moretti set the folder down on Vincent's desk with a deliberate click. The office smelled of leather and gun oil, the blinds half-drawn against the afternoon sun. Anthony hovered near the door, his jaw tight, while Dario leaned against the bookshelf, watching without comment.
"Final report," Dominic said. "Every transaction, every meeting. The kid didn't miss a detail."
Vincent didn't touch the folder. He kept his hands flat on the desk, knuckles pale. "You're sure."
"Cross-referenced with bank records and surveillance." Dominic tapped the file. "Evelyn Crane's been funneling funds through three shell companies. Same pattern as the Vitale mess last year, just cleaner."
Anthony made a sharp noise in his throat. "She used my accounts."
Dario pushed off the shelf. "not merely yours. Half the family's legitimate fronts are compromised." He didn't look at Vincent. "She picked the ones with the weakest oversight."
Vincent finally opened the folder. The pages rustled like dry leaves. "How long?"
"Eight months," Dominic said. "Minimum."
A muscle jumped in Vincent's jaw. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked twice before he spoke again. "You verified the withdrawals?"
"Down to the cent." Dominic pulled a single sheet from his inner pocket—handwritten, the ink slightly smudged. "This is the ledger from Crane's safe. The numbers match."
Dario took it without being asked. His eyes skimmed the columns, then flicked to Anthony. "You recognize these codes?"
Anthony stepped forward, his shoulders rigid. "Storage units. Upstate." His voice cracked. "I didn't authorize—"
"I know." Vincent cut him off. He looked at Dominic. "Who else has seen this?"
"Just us." Dominic nodded toward Marco, who stood silent by the window. "And him."
Vincent exhaled through his nose. The clock ticked again, louder. "Burn the copies."
Dario's head came up. "Boss—"
"You heard me." Vincent closed the folder. "This doesn't leave the room."
Anthony's hands clenched. "What about Crane?"
Vincent stood. The chair didn't make a sound as it slid back. "You let me worry about Evelyn."
Dario held the ledger out, his expression unreadable. Vincent took it, then tore the page cleanly in half. The rip echoed.
Dominic didn't flinch. "Your call."
"It always is." Vincent dropped the pieces into the brass ashtray on his desk. He struck a match. The flame caught fast, curling the edges black. "Anthony. With me."
Anthony followed without protest. The door shut behind them with a soft click.
Marco waited three full seconds before speaking. "That's it?"
Dario watched the ash settle. "For now."
Dominic rubbed his thumb along the edge of the desk, where the wood was worn smooth. "He won't let it go."
"No." Dario straightened his cuffs. "But he'll make sure we can't prove it."
The last ember winked out in the ashtray. Smoke curled toward the ceiling, thin and gray as old lies.
Dominic picked up the folder, weighing it in his hands before sliding it into his jacket. The leather creaked. "Surveillance on the storage units?"