CHAPTER 4 DARIO FACES THE BOSS
The back room of Moretti's social club smelled of cigar smoke and spilled whiskey, the kind of place where men came to settle scores without witnesses.
Dario Vitale didn't sit when Vincent Moretti gestured to the chair across from him.
Standing kept the advantage of movement, kept the conversation from settling into something too comfortable.
Vincent leaned back in his leather chair, fingers steepled. The diamond on his pinky ring caught the dim light. "Frankie Malone's dead." No greeting, no preamble. Just the accusation, laid out like a body on a slab.
Dario didn't blink. "He was compromised."
"By who?"
"Evelyn Crane's people. He was feeding her intel on our shipments."
Vincent's jaw tightened. "And you decided that meant a bullet instead of bringing him to me?"
Dario met his gaze. "There wasn't time for a debate. He had a meeting with her lieutenant scheduled. If he'd walked in there with our secrets, we'd be dealing with more than one corpse."
Vincent exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. The kind of breath a man took before breaking something. "You don't make those calls alone, Dario. That's not how this works."
"Then how does it work?" Dario kept his voice level, but the edge was there, honed sharp. "Do we wait for a vote when someone's selling us out? Do we let the rats chew through the foundation because protocol says we have to ask permission first?"
Vincent's knuckles whitened where they pressed against the desk. "You answer to this family. Not your own fucking judgment."
Dario tilted his head, just slightly. "Frankie wasn't family. He was a liability. And I dealt with him."
The silence stretched, thick with the weight of what wasn't being said.
Vincent reached for the decanter on the desk, poured two fingers of bourbon, and didn't offer Dario a glass.
"You've been operating like you're the only one who sees the threats. Like the rest of us are too slow to keep up."
He took a sip, deliberate. "That's a dangerous way to think."
Dario didn't move. "I think in results. Frankie's dead. Evelyn's network is scrambling. That's not arrogance. That's efficiency."
Vincent set the glass down with a quiet click. "Efficiency doesn't mean shit if it fractures the people who are supposed to have your back." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "You keep acting like you don't need us, Dario. One day, we might believe you."
A warning, clear as a knife on the table between them.
Dario smiled, just a flicker at the corner of his mouth. "Noted."
Vincent watched him for another beat, then waved a hand toward the door. "Get out."
Dario turned, but not before catching the way Vincent's gaze lingered on the holster under his jacket. A new rule, unspoken but unmistakable: next time, he wouldn't be walking out of here with his weapon still on him.
The door shut behind him with a soft click. The hallway outside was empty, but the weight of the conversation pressed against his ribs like a hand around his throat.
Vincent wasn't just angry about Frankie.
He was counting.
The hallway's fluorescent lights buzzed like trapped flies as Dario walked toward the exit, the weight of Vincent's unspoken warning still coiled around his ribs. He'd misread the situation—badly. Vincent hadn't called him in to discuss the missing shipment. This was about the Crane woman.
Frankie leaned against the wall by the stairwell, rolling a silver coin over his knuckles. "He chew your ass or just stare at you until you confessed?"
"Neither." Dario didn't slow down.
Frankie fell into step beside him, the coin vanishing into his pocket. "That's worse."
The lobby doors slid open to a gust of wet pavement and exhaust. Across the street, Evelyn Crane stood under a cafe awning, stirring sugar into a takeout cup. She lifted her chin when she saw them, a slow blink of acknowledgment.
Frankie stiffened. "You didn't tell me she was here."
"I didn't know."
Evelyn crossed the street without checking for traffic. A cab swerved, horn blaring. She didn't flinch.
"Christ," Frankie muttered. "She's got a death wish."
Dario watched her approach, the way her boots hit the pavement like she owned every inch of concrete between them. A new understanding clicked into place: Vincent hadn't been warning him about the gun. He'd been warning him about her.
Evelyn stopped an arm's length away, steam curling from her cup. "Vitale." She flicked a glance at Frankie. "Malone."
Frankie's hand twitched toward his hip. "You lost, Crane?"
"Not even a little." She took a sip, her gaze never leaving Dario's face. "I hear you're looking for a shipment."
The street noise faded to a dull roar. Dario kept his voice flat. "Who'd you hear that from?"
"People talk." She shrugged. "I listen."
Frankie stepped forward. "You setting up a meet or wasting our time?"
Evelyn smiled, all teeth. "Both." She pulled a folded slip of paper from her jacket and held it out to Dario. "Midnight. Dock 17."
He didn't take it. "Why?"
"Because you'll owe me." Her fingers brushed his when he finally accepted the paper, a deliberate scrape of skin that sent a jolt up his arm. "And I like collecting."
Frankie grabbed her wrist before she could pull back. "This is a trap."
Evelyn didn't struggle. She just tilted her head, waiting.
Dario watched the standoff, the way Frankie's grip tightened and Evelyn's pulse stayed steady under his fingers. The rules here weren't the ones he'd assumed. This wasn't a negotiation. It was a test.
"Let her go," Dario said.
Frankie released her with a shove. Evelyn adjusted her cuff, unruffled. "Midnight," she repeated, and walked away, her shadow stretching long behind her.
Frankie waited until she turned the corner before rounding on Dario. "You know this stinks."
"Yeah." Dario unfolded the paper. An address, scrawled in tight script, and beneath it, a single word: Alone.
Frankie saw it and cursed. "She's playing you."
Dario folded the paper again, the edges sharp against his palm. That much was obvious. What wasn't: why Vincent had let her get this close in the first place.
The answer hit him like a kick to the ribs.
Vincent wasn't letting her. He was using her.
And Dario had just accepted the bait.
Dario Vitale pushed open the study door without knocking, the weight of the carved oak swinging smoothly under his hand. The scent of aged leather and Vincent's preferred cigar blend wrapped around him as he stepped inside, the dim glow of the desk lamp cutting angular shadows across the room.
Dominic Moretti stood near the window, arms crossed, his reflection fractured by the leaded glass. He didn't turn at Dario's entrance, but the tension in his shoulders sharpened.
Vincent looked up from the ledger spread across his desk, fingers steepled. "You're late."
"Traffic," Dario said, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. He didn't offer more. The lie was thin, and they all knew it.
Dominic finally turned, his mouth a flat line. "You met with her."
Dario kept his expression neutral, though the accusation settled like a blade against his ribs. "She left a note." He pulled the folded paper from his jacket pocket and tossed it onto Vincent's desk. "Told me to come alone."
Vincent didn't reach for it. "And you did."
"Would you rather I brought an audience?" Dario tilted his head, just enough to catch the flicker in Dominic's jaw. "She's playing you. Both of you."
Dominic took a step forward. "You don't make those calls."
"No?" Dario held his ground. "Then who does? Because last I checked, we're still cleaning up the mess from the last time someone underestimated her."
Vincent exhaled, slow and controlled. "Sit down."
Dario didn't move. "We don't have time for posturing. She's not merely digging for leverage—she's already got it." He nodded toward the ledger. "How much did the Bianchi deal cost us?"
Dominic's fingers twitched. "That's family business."
"And I'm family." Dario kept his voice even, though the words carried an edge. "Or did that change when I wasn't looking?"
Vincent's gaze darkened. "Careful."
Dario met it without flinching. "She knows about the shipments. The ones you rerouted after the warehouse fire." He watched the realization settle over Vincent's face, the slight tightening around his eyes. "She didn't guess. She had numbers."
Dominic swore under his breath. "Who talked?"
"Does it matter?" Dario finally moved, circling the desk to stand beside Vincent. "The damage is done. Now we deal with it."
Vincent tapped the ledger once, a silent concession. "What's your play?"
Dario didn't smile. "Let her think she's won."
Dominic scoffed. "That's your solution? Roll over?"
"No." Dario turned, catching Dominic's glare. "We let her get close enough to make a mistake." He paused, just long enough to let the implication sink in. "And then we remind her what happens to people who overreach."
The silence stretched, thick with the weight of unspoken threats.
Vincent leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. "You're sure?"
Dario didn't blink. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."
A beat. Then Vincent nodded. "Do it."
Dominic's protest died unspoken as Dario turned toward the door. He didn't look back.
The study door closed behind him with a finality that echoed down the hall.
The study door hadn't fully latched behind Dario before Vincent's voice cut through the tension.
"Frankie Malone's dead." He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to. The mahogany desk between them gleamed under the chandelier's light, its surface marred only by a single brass key left deliberately at its center—Evelyn's key, confiscated from Frankie's effects.
Dario stopped mid-stride but didn't turn. "I'm aware."
"Are you?" Vincent's fingers tapped once against the armrest of his chair. A tell. Rare. "Because my men found him in a warehouse with his throat cut, not a drop of blood left on the floor. That's not a hit. That's a fucking message."
Dominic shifted near the bookshelves, his reflection warped in the glass of a locked gun case. "We don't even know if it's Crane's work—"