CHAPTER 1 DOMINICS COUP BEGINS #2
Paul did. The static bled across the screen again, erasing those crucial seconds. When it cleared, the document was in Evelyn’s hands.
Dominic drummed his fingers on the desk. "Where’s the safehouse now?"
"Gone. Cleaned out by morning. Crane’s in the wind."
And Dario had been the last one to see her.
Dominic pushed back from the desk, the chair scraping against the floor. "Get me the original files. Not your copy. The raw feed."
Paul hesitated. "Vincent’s expecting a report by—"
"Vincent gets what I give him." Dominic stood, looming over the smaller man. "And right now, I’m giving you a chance to explain why three seconds of my footage went missing."
Paul’s throat worked. "I’ll pull the originals."
Dominic watched him leave, then turned back to the screen. Dario’s frozen image stared back at him, smug even in pixelated silence.
He’d find out what was in that document. And then he’d find out exactly how much his brother’s consigliere thought he could get away with.
Dominic stepped into the dim backroom of Greco’s restaurant, the scent of garlic and red wine thick in the air.
The place hadn’t changed in years—same cracked leather booths, same faded mural of Sicily peeling at the edges.
Salvatore Greco sat at his usual corner table, a half-empty glass of amaro in front of him, his thick fingers tapping against the wood.
"Dominic Moretti," Greco said without looking up. "Your brother send you to collect, or is this personal?"
Dominic slid into the seat across from him. "Neither. I’m here about Dario."
Greco’s mouth twitched. He lifted his glass, took a slow sip, then set it down with deliberate care. "Vitale’s got a habit of making problems for people who don’t ask for them."
"Tell me something I don’t know."
Greco leaned back, the leather creaking under his weight. "You remember the Castellano job? Three years back?"
Dominic did. A warehouse deal gone wrong, bodies left where they shouldn’t have been. Vincent had smoothed it over, but not before it cost them two shipments and a lieutenant.
"Your brother’s consigliere," Greco said, "he didn’t just clean it up. He made sure Castellano’s people knew exactly why they were bleeding. Sent a message—one Vincent didn’t authorize."
Dominic kept his expression neutral, but his fingers tightened around the edge of the table. "You saying Dario went rogue?"
"I’m saying he’s got a long memory and a longer reach." Greco traced a finger along the rim of his glass. "Vincent lets him operate like he’s got no leash. That’s dangerous for everyone."
Dominic exhaled through his nose. "You got proof?"
Greco smirked. "You think I’d be sitting here if I didn’t?" He reached into his jacket, slid a folded photograph across the table. Dominic didn’t touch it.
"That’s from last month. One of my guys caught Vitale meeting with Rinaldi’s crew—after Vincent told him to stay clear." Greco’s voice dropped. "Your brother’s got a blind spot where his fixer’s concerned. Someone ought to remind him what happens when you let a man like that get too comfortable."
Dominic finally picked up the photo. Dario, standing in a shadowed alley, talking to a man with Rinaldi’s scar across his cheek. No mistaking it.
He tucked the photo into his own jacket. "This stays between us."
Greco laughed, low and rough. "You think I want Vitale knowing I’m the one who talked? I like breathing, kid." He drained the rest of his drink. "But you tell Vincent—next time Dario oversteps, it won’t be me coming to you. It’ll be bodies."
Dominic stood. "Noted."
He turned for the door, Greco’s voice following him. "And Dominic? Don’t wait too long to act. Men like your brother’s consigliere—they don’t leave loose ends. They bury them."
The door swung shut behind him. Outside, the night air was sharp with the promise of rain. Dominic pulled out his phone, hesitated, then dialed.
Vincent answered on the second ring. "Yeah?"
"We need to talk," Dominic said. "About Dario."
A pause. Then, "Where?"
"Rizzo’s place. One hour." He hung up before Vincent could ask why.
The photo weighed heavy in his pocket. Greco was right—Dario didn’t leave loose ends.
Which meant Dominic had just become one.
The door swung open before Dominic could respond to Greco’s warning.
Paul Rizzo filled the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking the dim light from the hallway.
His expression was tight, jaw working like he was chewing on glass.
He didn’t wait for an invitation, just stepped inside and let the door slam behind him.
"Vincent." He nodded at the boss, then cut his gaze to Dario. "Vitale." The name came out like an accusation.
Evelyn shifted slightly beside Dario, her fingers brushing against his sleeve—a silent question. He didn’t react, but the air in the room thickened.
Rizzo wasn’t here for pleasantries. He planted his feet, arms crossed. "You want to explain why I had to hear from Greco’s boys about the Rossi hit? That was supposed to be my crew’s job."
Dario tilted his head, unbothered. "It was time-sensitive."
"Bullshit." Rizzo’s voice cracked like a whip. "You didn’t consult. Didn’t clear it. Just took the shot and left my guys sitting on their asses with half a plan and no target."
Vincent exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. "This again?"
"It’s not merely Rossi," Rizzo snapped. "Last month, the warehouse deal. Two weeks ago, the damn accountant. Every time Dario decides he knows better, my men lose credibility. You want people thinking we can’t handle our own fucking operations?"
Dominic leaned against the desk, watching. "You’re saying Dario’s stepping on toes."
"I’m saying he’s cutting them off at the ankle." Rizzo’s glare didn’t waver. "This isn’t how we operate. You don’t get to cherry-pick who follows protocol and who doesn’t."
Dario finally moved, just a fraction—enough to draw Rizzo’s attention like a predator sensing a shift in the wind. "If protocol meant waiting while Rossi moved his cash out of reach, then the protocol was the problem."
Vincent held up a hand before Rizzo could retort. "Enough. Paul, I hear you. But this isn’t the place."
"The place is wherever Dario decides it is," Rizzo shot back. "That’s the fucking issue."
Evelyn’s nails dug into her palm, but her voice stayed smooth. "Is this about territory, or are you worried someone’s keeping score?"
Rizzo’s gaze flicked to her, sharp. "Who’s asking?"
Dario stepped forward, just enough to put himself between them. "She’s with me."
"That’s not an answer."
"It’s the only one you’re getting."
The silence stretched, brittle. Then Rizzo snorted, shaking his head. "Fine. But this isn’t over." He turned to Vincent. "You let this slide, next time someone undercuts you, don’t act surprised."
He didn’t wait for a response, just yanked the door open and stalked out. The echo of his footsteps faded down the hall.
Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dario."
Dario didn’t look at him. "He’ll cool off."
"Will he?" Dominic muttered.
Greco pushed off the wall, rolling his shoulders. "Rizzo’s not wrong. You’re making it personal."
Dario’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Everything’s personal."
Vincent exhaled. "Get out. All of you."
Evelyn felt the weight of the dismissal, the unspoken warning in it. She followed Dario out, but the tension didn’t leave with them. It settled, like a blade balanced on the edge of a table.
One push, and it would fall.
The silence in the hallway was brittle. Evelyn flexed her fingers against the strap of her bag, the leather creaking softly. Dominic exhaled through his nose, a controlled sound, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the edge of the side table.
"Vincent needs to hear this," Dario said. Not a suggestion. The weight of it settled between them like a ledger opened to the wrong page.
Dominic's jaw worked. "He won't like being interrupted."
"And I don't like cleaning up bodies before breakfast," Evelyn said, too sharp. She caught the flicker in Dario's expression—not quite approval, but something adjacent. "Your brother's the one who put me on this. He gets the report."
Dominic shot her a look that could have stripped paint. "You don't walk into his office unannounced."
"Then announce us." Dario checked his watch, the motion precise. "Tell him we have concerns about the Rizzo shipment. That'll get the door open."
Dominic hesitated, thumb rubbing over the signet ring on his left hand. The Moretti crest caught the light, the lion's eyes dull with old tarnish. "He's meeting with Sal right now."
"Better," Evelyn said. "Greco's got skin in this too. Saves us repeating the goddamn story."
Dominic's phone was already in his hand, thumb hovering over the screen. He typed fast, the clicks audible in the quiet. A beat. Then the buzz of a reply. "Five minutes. And he's not happy."
Dario straightened his cuffs. "He never is."
The walk to Vincent's office was too short. Evelyn counted the steps—twenty-three—and the number felt like a verdict. The door was heavy oak, the brass handle polished to a military shine. Dominic knocked twice, waited for the muffled acknowledgment, then pushed it open.
Vincent sat behind the desk, Salvatore Greco in the chair opposite. The air smelled of espresso and gun oil. Vincent didn't look up from the papers in front of him. "This better be urgent."
"It is," Dario said.
Evelyn stepped forward before Dominic could steer the conversation. "The Rizzo pickup wasn't just delayed. The warehouse was scrubbed. No crates, no guards, no paper trail. Just Paul's boys playing dumb when we asked questions."
Vincent's pen stilled. "Paul knows better."
"Maybe," Dario said. "Or maybe someone made him forget."
Salvatore leaned forward, the chair groaning under his weight. "You saying this is a play?"
"I'm saying we verify before we react." Dario's voice was calm, but his gaze locked onto Vincent's. "And we do it quiet. No muscle, no threats. Just eyes where they don't expect them."
Vincent set the pen down. The click was deliberate. "You have a name?"