CHAPTER 4 DARIO FACES THE BOSS #2
"It is." Dario finally turned, meeting Vincent's gaze. The overhead light caught the silver in Vincent's temples, the rigid set of his jaw. "She's cleaning house. Frankie got sloppy."
Vincent stood. The chair didn't scrape. It never did; the legs were kept perfectly balanced. "Frankie was ours. His mistakes were ours to handle. Not some witch who thinks she can carve up my people like a Sunday roast."
A muscle twitched in Dario's jaw. "He was compromised. Letting him live would've—"
"Accountability," Vincent interrupted. "That's what you always preach, isn't it? So tell me, Consigliere. Who holds you accountable when you make the call to burn one of our own?"
The question hung, sharp as the blade that had opened Frankie's veins. Dario could taste the trap—Vincent wasn't asking about Frankie. He was asking about the line Dario had crossed by acting without the table's vote.
Dominic stepped forward, his shadow stretching across the Persian rug. "Vincent—"
"Quiet." Vincent didn't look away from Dario. "I want to hear his answer."
Dario exhaled through his nose. The key on the desk glinted, a silent witness. "You do," he said at last. "Always."
Vincent's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Good. Then you won't object to handling the retaliation personally. Bring me Evelyn Crane's head. Not a message. Not a warning. The real thing."
A beat. Then Dario inclined his head. "Understood."
Dominic's protest died unspoken as Dario turned toward the door. Behind him, Vincent's voice followed, quiet and final: "And Dario? No more unilateral decisions."
The hallway outside was empty, the air smelling of lemon polish and gun oil. Dario flexed his fingers once, twice. The key was still on the desk.
He left it there.
Dario reached the end of the hallway, where a narrow window overlooked the courtyard below. The streetlights cast long, jagged shadows across the cobblestones—like cracks in the foundation. He paused, listening for footsteps behind him. None came.
A cigarette appeared between his fingers before he’d consciously decided to light one. The flare of the match illuminated the tightness around his mouth for half a second before he exhaled, smoke curling toward the ceiling.
"You always do that when you’re pissed."
Dario didn’t turn. "Go away, Dominic."
The younger man leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed. "You know he’s right. Frankie was a liability."
"Frankie was a soldier." Dario took another drag. "We don’t leave soldiers in ditches."
Dominic snorted. "Since when?"
The cigarette burned down to the filter faster than it should have. Dario crushed it under his heel. "Since now."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant hum of the city. Dominic pushed off the wall, his voice dropping. "You really gonna go after Crane alone?"
Dario’s hand drifted to the inside pocket of his coat, where a folded photograph rested—Evelyn, caught mid-laugh at some charity gala, her pearls gleaming under flashbulbs. "No."
Dominic frowned. "Then what—"
A door slammed upstairs. Both men tensed, but no one came. Dario’s fingers tightened around the photograph. "Tell me about the warehouse."
Dominic blinked. "What?"
"Frankie’s body. You saw it."
"Not much to tell. Clean cut. No blood. Almost like—"
"Like it was drained," Dario finished.
Dominic’s throat worked. "Yeah."
Dario turned the photograph over, revealing a second image tucked behind the first: Frankie’s corpse, pale as wax, the wound at his neck precise as a surgeon’s incision. "Then it’s not merely Crane we’re dealing with."
Dominic’s breath hitched. "Who else would—"
Dario pocketed the photos and started down the stairs. "Get the car. We’re paying a visit to the butcher."
Dominic hesitated. "Vincent said—"
"I heard what he said." Dario didn’t slow. "But he didn’t ask how I’d do it."
The front door swung open before Dominic could reply, letting in a gust of cold air. Outside, the street was empty. Waiting.
Dario stepped into the dark.
Dario stopped halfway down the stairs, one hand braced against the peeling wallpaper. The cold air from the open door carried the sharp scent of wet pavement and distant sirens. Frankie stood framed in the doorway, her jacket damp from the rain, eyes flicking from Dario to Dominic and back.
"Vincent wants you at the warehouse," she said. "Now."
Dominic exhaled sharply through his nose. "We're not done here."
Dario didn't look at him. "We are." He descended the remaining steps, brushing past Frankie without touching her. She fell into step beside him, matching his pace as they crossed the cracked sidewalk toward the waiting car.
"You didn't tell him about the docks," she murmured.
"Because he'd argue." Dario slid into the passenger seat, the leather creaking under his weight. "And we don't have time."
Frankie started the engine. "He's gonna find out."
"Let him."
The warehouse loomed ahead, its rusted fire escape casting jagged shadows under the streetlights. Inside, Vincent stood over a map spread across a worktable, Anthony at his shoulder. Both looked up as Dario entered.
"You moved on Crane's shipments without clearing it," Vincent said.
Dario didn't break stride. "I prevented greater losses."
Anthony's jaw tightened. "By starting a war?"
"By cutting off their supply line before they could arm half the North End." Dario tapped the map where red X's marked Crane's warehouses. "They were stockpiling. The attacks forced them to burn through reserves instead of distributing."
Vincent's expression didn't change. "Dominic says you're operating outside chain of command."
A muscle jumped in Dario's jaw. "Dominic wasn't there when the intel came in. I made the call."
Frankie leaned against the wall near the door, arms crossed. "He's right. If we'd waited—"
"You don't get to decide what justifies unilateral action." Vincent's voice stayed quiet, which meant he was furious. "Not even you."
Dario met his gaze. "Then fire me."
Silence. The hum of the overhead lights filled the space between them.
Anthony broke it first. "We can't afford to lose you."
"That's not the question." Vincent folded his arms. "The question is whether I can afford to keep you."
Frankie pushed off the wall. "You want to bench your best strategist over protocol?"
Vincent didn't look at her. "I want to know if he still answers to me."
Dario held his stare. "You know where I stand."
A beat. Then Vincent exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Get out. All of you."
Frankie grabbed Dario's elbow on the way out, her grip tight. "That was stupid."
He shook her off. "Necessary."
Behind them, the warehouse door slammed shut with finality. The rain had picked up, drumming against the pavement like a warning.
Frankie stopped under the awning of a shuttered deli. "They were testing you."
Dario didn't answer. He was already walking away, his coat dark with rain.
She called after him. "You can't keep playing both sides!"
He turned just enough to glance back at her, water dripping from his hair. "Watch me."
The new detail: Crane's people had been smuggling weapons in hollowed-out fishing crates, the kind with false bottoms lined with lead to fool scanners. Dario had found the pattern in customs logs—too many "seafood" shipments going to addresses nowhere near the water.
Vincent Moretti stood in the dim light of the warehouse office, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the edge of Dario’s desk. The air smelled of salt and damp wood from the crates stacked outside, the scent clinging to the walls like a warning.
Dario didn’t look up from the customs logs spread before him. "You’re blocking my light."
Vincent exhaled through his nose, a sound too controlled to be a sigh. "You’ve been tracking Crane’s shipments without clearance."
"Not tracking," Dario corrected, flipping a page. "Noting."
"Semantics don’t change the fact I had to hear about it from Dominic." Vincent’s voice stayed low, but the weight behind it pressed down like the lead lining in those crates. "You don’t move without approval. Not on this."
Dario finally glanced up, his expression unreadable. "Approval slows things down. You know that."
"I know you think it does." Vincent leaned forward, bracing his palms on the desk.
"But here’s what else I know—Crane’s people aren’t just smuggling guns. They’re moving something that requires lead shielding. Something hot enough to need containment. And you didn’t think that warranted a conversation before you started poking at it?"
A muscle twitched in Dario’s jaw. "I handled it."