CHAPTER 2 VINCENTS WAVERING TRUST #3
Vincent leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. His fingers tapped once against the armrest—a silent dismissal. "That's all for now."
Frankie didn't move. She'd seen that look before, the one that meant Vincent had already decided something no one else was privy to yet.
Dominic exhaled sharply through his nose but turned toward the door, whiskey glass still in hand.
Salvatore flicked his cigarette into the street and followed without a word.
Only when the door clicked shut behind them did Vincent reach for the phone on his desk. He didn't dial. Just pressed the intercom button, his voice flat. "Get Dario up here."
A beat of silence. Then the crackling response: "He's in the middle of—"
"Now."
Frankie crossed her arms. The office smelled like cigar smoke and gun oil, the safe behind Vincent's chair slightly ajar. She could see the edge of a ledger inside—black cover, red trim. New. That hadn't been there last week.
Vincent caught her looking and shut the safe with his heel. "Problem?"
She shook her head. But the ledger meant something. In their world, new books only came out when someone was about to get audited—or buried.
Footsteps in the hall. Dario didn't knock. He never did. The door opened, and there he was, sleeves rolled to the elbows, ink staining his forearms like old bruises. He'd been downstairs, then. The basement wasn't a place anyone went unless summoned.
"You called," Dario said. Not a question.
Vincent steepled his fingers. "We have a situation."
Dario's gaze flicked to Frankie, then back. "Define 'situation.'"
"The kind that starts with Rizzo's mouth and ends with a body in a trunk." Vincent reached into his desk drawer and slid a photograph across the wood. "Paul's been talking to the wrong people."
Frankie didn't need to see the photo to know what it showed. The glint of a wire. The shadow of a fed lurking just out of frame.
Dario picked it up, studied it for half a second, then set it down. "You want him handled."
"I want it quiet." Vincent's voice dropped. "And I want you to make sure he understands why."
A muscle jumped in Dario's jaw. He didn't ask for clarification. He never did. That was the problem.
Frankie cleared her throat. "You sure this isn't something Dominic should—"
"Dominic's got his hands full." Vincent cut her off with a look. "This is Dario's mess to clean up."
Dario didn't react. But his fingers curled slightly at his sides, just enough for Frankie to notice.
Vincent leaned forward. "Unless you've got a reason to say no."
Silence. The clock on the wall ticked once. Twice.
Dario reached for the photo again, folded it neatly in half, and tucked it into his pocket. "I'll take care of it."
Vincent smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Good."
Frankie watched Dario turn for the door, his stride even, unhurried. Like a man walking to a meeting, not a hit.
The ledger. The basement. The way Vincent hadn't even blinked when he gave the order.
She knew then—this wasn't just about Rizzo.
This was a test.
Dario's phone buzzed once—Vincent's private line. No message, just the summons. He exhaled through his nose, slid the device back into his pocket, and turned to Frankie. "Tell Salvatore to hold the warehouse crew until I call him."
Frankie's fingers paused over his own phone. "You want backup?"
"No." Dario adjusted his cuffs. The weight of the photo in his breast pocket pressed against his ribs like an accusation. "Vincent doesn't schedule ambushes."
The Moretti compound loomed ahead, its wrought-iron gates already swinging open. Dominic stood at the foot of the front steps, arms crossed, jaw tight. He didn't speak as Dario passed, but the tension in his shoulders said enough.
Vincent waited in the study, pouring two fingers of bourbon into a cut-crystal glass. The amber liquid caught the light as he pushed it across the desk. "Sit."
Dario remained standing. "You called."
"I did." Vincent leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled to the elbows—the casual affect of a man about to discuss murder over dinner. "Paul Rizzo's nephew turned up in the harbor this morning. Missing his tongue."
Dario didn't blink. "Unfortunate."
Vincent's smile didn't reach his eyes. "The kid was nineteen. A fucking errand boy." He tapped the desk blotter with one manicured nail. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
The air between them thickened. Dario considered the bourbon, the deliberate choice of his preferred brand. A peace offering or a last drink. "Rizzo's been skimming from the docks. His nephew delivered the envelopes."
"And you decided to make an example." Vincent's voice dropped, the quiet before the blade falls. "Without consulting me."
Dario met his gaze. "You were in Chicago."
"Bullshit." Vincent stood abruptly, the chair scraping against hardwood.
"This isn't about timing. It's about you carving your own fucking territory."
He circled the desk, stopping just inside Dario's personal space.
The scent of his cologne—spice and citrus—clashed with the bourbon's oak.
"I don't care how many problems you solve. You don't get to rewrite the rules."
A floorboard creaked outside the door. Dominic, listening. Frankie, maybe, if he'd disobeyed orders. Dario kept his hands loose at his sides. "Rizzo's crew won't touch our shipments again."
"That's not the point!" Vincent's fist slammed into the desk. The glass toppled, bourbon bleeding across polished wood. "The Greeks are sniffing around our books. The feds just subpoenaed Anthony's shell companies. And you're out here starting wars over pocket change?"
Dario watched the liquor drip onto the rug. A hundred-dollar stain. "You want me to apologize?"
"I want you to remember who signs your checks." Vincent stepped closer, his breath hot against Dario's cheek. "Next time you take initiative, it better come with advance notice. Or I'll start wondering if you've got ambitions beyond consigliere."
The threat hung between them, sharp as a razor. Dario smiled, slow and deliberate. "Noted."
Vincent exhaled through his nose, then jerked his chin toward the door. "Get out."
Dario turned on his heel. Dominic stood in the hallway, arms still crossed. His expression said he'd heard every word.
Frankie waited by the car, one foot propped on the bumper. He took one look at Dario's face and straightened. "How bad?"
Dario pulled the photo from his pocket, the crease now cutting Evelyn Crane's face in half. He flicked it against Frankie's chest. "Find out where she's hiding."
Frankie caught the photo, his brows lifting. "Vincent just put you on a leash and you're still—"
"Now, Frankie." Dario slid into the passenger seat, the leather cool against his back. The taste of bourbon lingered on his tongue, bitter as the reckoning he'd just avoided. For now.
The engine roared to life. Somewhere behind them, a curtain twitched in an upstairs window. Watching. Always watching.