Chapter 18
Eighteen
Tesauro Vincino
From the penthouse windows, Philadelphia looked almost honest. Rooflines.
Streets like capillaries. Tiny cars creeping along the arteries.
You couldn’t smell the rot from up here.
Couldn’t hear the men under bridges counting grams instead of blessings.
Just glass and sky and the slow, constant hum of money moving.
I was standing with a drink in my hand I hadn’t touched yet, watching the river catch the midday light. The glass wall reflected myself back—dark suit, darker eyes, no tie, top button open like I had all the time in the world.
Because I did.
Behind me, the penthouse was a study in obscene restraint. White stone. Black wood. Art that cost more than some of my employees’ lives. The city buzzed under my feet. The Bolivar Cartel buzzed at the back of my skull.
“You’re brooding.”
Isabella’s voice drifted in from the doorway.
I let my reflection ghost over the glass before I turned and glanced at her. Floor-to-ceiling windows, polished stone, a spread of leather and steel and art I’d paid too much for to impress men I didn’t respect behind closed doors. Isabella fit right into it.
She padded in barefoot across the polished white marble floor, silk dress clinging to her like poured blood, hair up, neck bare except for a gold chain with enough diamonds on it that could’ve paid off someone’s house. No makeup except the red on her mouth. She didn’t need more than that.
“I’m thinking,” I corrected.
“Same thing,” she said, stepping up beside me to look out over the skyline. “They hit the Devil’s assets. Their armory. One of those Giorlando boy’s little playgrounds by the ocean. Your plan is moving. My cousins are pleased.”
I heard the weight under the word cousins.
The Bolivar Cartel didn’t bankroll little men with little dreams. When I’d first taken their calls, years ago, I had two blocks, three bars, and a handful of scared dockhands.
I wanted more. Territory. Docks. Buildings that touched the sky.
Their money built it faster than my father ever could’ve imagined.
Once I decided that ambition mattered more than sleeping easy, money poured into my veins.
Money came with strings though. The same money that built half the towers I could see from here would smother me if I stopped being useful.
“You sound surprised,” I said.
“I sound cautious,” she replied. “They like results, Tesauro. You know this. They funded your expansion when you couldn’t get your own people to think past South Philly.
But if the profits slow, they won’t care what my last name is.
They only care about their money flow and product reaching buyers. ”
She tapped her nail lightly against the glass, a small metallic click.
“They’ve killed husbands before,” she added. “Made widows, remarried the women into better investments. You’re not unique. But this isn’t a surprise to you either. You know all this already. Knew it when you asked for my hand all those years ago.”
I smiled faintly. “Your way of saying you’d miss me?”
“My way of saying don’t get sentimental about this war,” she said. “We started it. Now we finish it fast, or they’ll finish you for wasting bullets and bodies.”
I turned away from her and back to the view.
Sin City with its neon and cheap perfume. The Lodge with its darker corners. Outlaw Armory. All the little revenue streams they’d just rattled. Then a bigger target, The Black Velvet. Dante, Roman’s second son’s glass-and-light ego box.
I imagined the panic in that club. The glass raining down. The bodies scrambling over each other like rats abandoning a sinking ship.
I smiled.
“Dante lives,” Isabella said. “That’s what the report said. That and his two bodyguards didn’t. Which means your plant didn’t make it either.”
A soft chime sounded from deeper in the penthouse.
Isabella tilted her head. “They’re here,” she said. “Your biker mercenaries. Your dogs, and your thinkers.”
“My tools,” I corrected.
She shrugged and moved away, bare feet whispering across the floor.
I took one last look at the city, then turned my back on it and walked toward the meeting room.
***
The table was long, dark, and older than anyone in the room. I had it brought over from the old place when this penthouse was built. My grandfather had signed truces over it. My father had signed lies. I signed futures.
Now it held my coffee, a cut-glass ashtray, and five men’s attention.
Yashida sat to my right. My consigliere.
Immaculate suit, tie straight, expression carved from something cold and patient.
Fiorenzo, my brother and Underboss, lounged farther down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, ink crawling up his sun-browned skin, hands scarred and restless.
Nico, my son, Capo of narcotics, sat opposite him, too young for the weight on his shoulders, but still made me proud.
At the far end, two Steel Serpents sat side by side like kids hauled into the principal’s office. Colors on. Or rather lack thereof. Gray vests, cuts as they call them. Their eyes were trying to be steady and failing.
Isabella took a chair off to the side. She wasn’t just ornamental like Roman’s woman. Everyone in the room knew that, whether they liked it or not. If I weren’t present, she was the most dangerous person in the room.
I didn’t sit immediately. I walked to the head of the table, rested my fingers on the back of my leather chair, and let the silence stretch.
“So,” I said finally. “Tell me a story.”
One of the Serpents cleared his throat. Late twenties. Scar down the one side of his jaw. Hands a little too tight on his knees.
“We hit the places like you said,” he began. “Strip club first. Sin City. Two SUVs, three of us on bikes. In and out. Glass gone, front all shot to shit. No bodies. Just fear. Then The Lodge. Same thing. Windows, doors. We made it loud.”
“And then the armory?” I asked. I knew this already. It was boring. But I needed to hear it from their mouths first.
The other Serpent spoke up this time. Younger. Eyes too bright.
“Outlaw,” he said. “Far wall, racks, some stock. Also in and out. They know you can touch their guns now.”
“Good,” I said. “I want them to know I can reach out and touch anything that they own.”
I finally sat, folding myself into the chair like a king humoring his own throne.
“And the club?” Yashida asked quietly. “The Black Velvet.”
The first Serpent swallowed. “Hotter,” he admitted.
“They had people there. Giorlando soldiers as security. Devil’s Aces.
At least one Shore Viper we think. We went in the front.
Took out the glass. Got some of their men.
Caused chaos, took out a few patrons, enough to cause a headache.
But Dante, our primary target, survived.
His bodyguards didn’t. One of the Devils—a kid—took a round in the neck.
Didn’t stay to see what happened but we’re certain he bled out on the floor of their VIP lounge. ”
Nico exhaled through his nose. “Shame,” he said, the word lacking any real grief. “The Devils breed the hard ones. If he was young, he probably didn’t have his horns yet.”
“Either way, it sends a message,” Fiorenzo said. “Prospect or not. They thought their colors made them immortal. Now they know they can drown in their own blood and hellfire just like anyone else.”
I nodded once.
I’d seen enough men die to know most of them were forgettable. It wasn’t personal. It was math. But the Devils had a way of turning their dead into rallying banners. Names on walls. Stories told over bottles. Men like Blackjack and Roman built loyalty out of ghosts.
“We also lost one of ours,” the younger Serpent said, glancing at his companion. “Cartel boys too. It was… messy.”
“You’re still breathing,” I said mildly. “That already puts you ahead of others.”
I looked at Yashida. “Opinion?” I asked.
Yashida steepled his fingers. “The strikes achieved what we wanted on this pass, besides not taking out Dante,” he said.
“Fear, disruption, attention. Minimal exposure for us on this side. The Velvets hit showed Giorlando his own sons’ world isn’t untouchable.
That Devil dying there ties their grief together.
The book is being followed, even if some of the lines have changed, shifted, or we’ve skipped a few pages. ”
Isabella’s gaze flicked to him at the word book. That ledger floated in the air without being named.
“The Devils and the Vipers defended it well until more Giorlando goons showed up,” the younger Serpent continued. “Better than we expected. They’re dug in now. Roman too probably.”
“And these Vipers?” I asked. “Our little surprise in the factory by the shore?”
The first Serpent shifted. “You hit them once already,” he said. “Got inside. Tore up their bar some. Shot a couple. But they pushed you back hard from what we heard.”
Isabella’s mouth twitched. “Maybe you should have pushed harder at the club and killed Dante. Die trying to complete your mission instead of high tailing it and running. At least my families’ men die with their name in their mouths and honor.”
I could see her anger. She never tried to hide it. She was just as ruthless as her cousins could be. That was one of the reasons I fell for her.
I let the room breathe for a moment. Let the details settle.
Hits landed. Money rattled. Some blood had been spent on both sides. But no one at this table was dead. Not a bad first verse.
I then turned my head slightly, met Fiorenzo’s eyes, and gave the smallest nod.
Fiorenzo moved before the Serpents understood the gesture was about them.
His arm rose, easy, unhurried, pulled a pistol out from under the table like it was nothing more than a misplaced utensil, and put a bullet through the younger Serpent’s forehead.