CHAPTER 4 DARIO FACES THE BOSS #3
"Your version of handling things leaves bodies in places I have to explain." Vincent straightened, rolling his shoulders back. "Fall in line, Vitale. Or I’ll find someone who can follow simple fucking orders."
The threat hung between them, sharp as the edge of a blade.
Frankie shifted by the door, her arms crossed. She hadn’t spoken yet, but her presence was a silent third player in the room.
Dario leaned back in his chair. "You need me."
"I need a consigliere who remembers which side he’s on." Vincent’s gaze didn’t waver. "You’ve been playing both sides of this board too long. That ends now."
Dario held his stare for a beat too long before flicking his eyes to Frankie. "You agree with this?"
She didn’t flinch. "I don’t get a vote. But if I did? I’d tell you to stop acting like you’re the only one who sees the whole game."
Vincent turned toward the door, pausing just before he crossed the threshold. "Forty-eight hours. Bring me everything you’ve got on Crane’s operation. And Vitale?" His voice dropped. "This isn’t a negotiation."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Frankie exhaled, rubbing a hand over her face. "He’s not wrong."
Dario stared at the closed door, his fingers tightening around the edge of the customs log. A single page tore under his grip, the sound loud in the quiet room.
Frankie eyed the torn paper. "You’re not usually this sloppy."
He didn’t answer.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the loose pane in the office window. A gust carried the scent of rain—and something else, faint but unmistakable.
Frankie frowned, tilting her head. "You smell that?"
Dario’s gaze darkened. "Brimstone."
She went still. "That’s not possible."
He closed the customs log with deliberate care. "Neither was Crane smuggling weapons in fish crates."
Frankie’s lips pressed into a thin line. "You think they’re moving more than guns now."
Dario stood, circling the desk toward the door. "I think," he said, voice low, "we just ran out of time."
Dario leaned against the warehouse wall, the cold concrete pressing into his back through his suit jacket.
The overhead lights flickered, casting uneven shadows across Vincent Moretti’s face as the underboss paced, his polished shoes clicking against the concrete floor.
The air smelled of saltwater and rust, the tang of the nearby docks seeping through the walls.
Frankie stood near the door, arms crossed, her gaze flicking between them. Anthony lounged on a crate, idly spinning a switchblade between his fingers, but his posture was too still, too alert. Dominic hovered just behind Vincent, a silent shadow with a hand resting near his holster.
"It’s more than the guns," Vincent said, stopping mid-stride. His voice was calm, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. "You’re keeping something from me."
Dario didn’t flinch. "I gave you the report."
"You gave me half." Vincent’s fingers flexed at his sides. "Evelyn’s name wasn’t in those manifests. But you knew she was involved."
Frankie’s breath hitched, just barely. Dario didn’t look at her.
"Speculation," he said.
Vincent laughed, sharp and humorless. "Bullshit. You don’t speculate. You know."
A beat of silence. The hum of the industrial freezer at the far end of the warehouse buzzed like a trapped insect. Dario exhaled slowly, weighing his next words.
Vincent’s trust was eroding. He could see it now—the way the underboss watched him, the way his men subtly adjusted their stances, ready for an order Dario wouldn’t give.
"I verified her involvement," Dario admitted. "But not through the manifests."
Vincent’s eyes darkened. "How?"
"Sources I can’t disclose."
"That’s not how this works." Vincent stepped closer, close enough that Dario could smell the expensive cologne undercut with gun oil. "You don’t get to pick which secrets you keep."
Dario met his gaze. "I do if it keeps us alive."
Vincent’s expression tightened. Behind him, Dominic shifted his weight forward, a silent threat.
Anthony snapped his knife shut with a click. "Christ. If she’s moving more than guns, we’re already fucked."
"No," Dario said. "We’re not." He kept his voice level, but he could feel the ground shifting beneath him, the balance of power tilting. "But if you don’t let me handle this my way, we will be."
Vincent stared at him for a long moment. Then he turned away, running a hand through his hair. "You’re on thin ice, Vitale."
Dario didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.
Frankie’s knuckles whitened where she gripped her arm.
Vincent headed for the door, Dominic falling into step behind him. "You have forty-eight hours," he said without looking back. "Then we do this my way."
The door slammed shut behind them.
Anthony whistled low. "That went well."
Dario ignored him, turning instead to Frankie. "Get me everything you have on Crane’s last five shipments."
She hesitated. "Dario—"
"Now."
She nodded, slipping out after the others.
Anthony hopped off the crate, tucking his knife away. "You really think you can fix this?"
Dario didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
The clock was ticking.