CHAPTER 7 TOMMYS RECKLESS VOW #2
"Insurance." Tommy flicked ash onto the ground. "Dominic's not the only one who plans ahead."
A car door slammed out on the street. Ez jerked like he'd been shot, but Tommy didn't even blink.
"Friday," Tommy said. "Twelfth Street. And Ez?" He grinned, all teeth. "Wear gloves."
He left Ez standing there, the paper a tight wad in his fist, the beer soaking into his shoes. The alley smelled like wet garbage and gasoline. Somewhere nearby, a cat yowled.
Ez didn't look down at the glass. Didn't look at the paper. Just stared at the spot where Tommy had been, wondering how many other lies he'd swallowed tonight.
Then he pulled out his phone and dialed.
It rang once. Twice.
A voice answered, low and familiar.
Ez closed his eyes. "Yeah," he said. "He took the bait."
Ezra crushed the paper tighter in his fist, the ink smearing against his palm.
The beer had soaked through his sock now, cold and sticky between his toes.
Another car door slammed outside—Frankie’s voice barking orders—and Ez forced himself to move, shoving the ruined note into his pocket just as the back door swung open.
Vincent Moretti stepped inside, his polished shoes clicking against the tile. He didn’t look at Ez, didn’t acknowledge the mess at his feet. Just walked past like Ez was part of the furniture, heading straight for the whiskey on the counter.
Dario followed, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass. "You’re late."
Ez swallowed. "Traffic."
Dario didn’t blink. "You smell like a brewery."
Vincent poured two fingers of whiskey, swirling it once before knocking it back. "We don’t have time for this." His voice was calm, but Ez had seen that look before—the quiet before the storm.
Tommy leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "He knows."
Ez’s stomach dropped.
Vincent set the glass down with deliberate precision. "Knows what?"
Ez opened his mouth, but Dario cut in. "The warehouse deal. Ez thinks we’re rushing it."
Vincent’s expression didn’t change. "And?"
Ez forced himself to stand straighter. "It’s too soon. The Feds are still sniffing around after the last shipment. If we push now, it’ll destabilize the whole operation."
Vincent’s fingers tapped once against the counter. "You think I don’t know that?"
Ez flinched. "I’m just saying—"
"You’re just saying you don’t trust my judgment." Vincent’s voice stayed low, but Ez felt the weight of it like a blade against his throat. "You think I haven’t accounted for the risks?"
Ez’s pulse hammered. "No, but—"
"But what?" Dario’s tone was deceptively mild. "You think you see something we don’t?"
Ez clenched his jaw. "I think rushing this will destabilize the family further. We’re still recovering from the hit we took last month. If the Feds catch wind—"
Vincent’s laugh was short, humorless. "The Feds aren’t your concern."
Ez’s hands curled into fists. "Then what is?"
Vincent’s gaze flicked to Dario, then back to Ez. "Loyalty."
The word hung in the air like a verdict.
Tommy pushed off the doorframe, stepping closer. "He’s got a point, boss. Maybe we wait a week, let the heat die down."
Vincent’s expression darkened. "We don’t have a week."
Ez hesitated. "Why not?"
Dario’s phone buzzed—once, twice. He didn’t check it. "Because Anthony’s already in play."
Ez went still. Anthony Moretti wasn’t just Vincent’s brother—he was a loose cannon with a habit of burning bridges. If he was involved, the timeline wasn’t just rushed; it was a fucking suicide run.
Frankie’s voice cut in from the hallway, sharp with urgency. "Boss, we got movement on the south docks. Cops just rolled up."
Vincent didn’t react. "How many?"
"Enough to be a problem."
Dario exhaled through his nose. "Anthony’s work?"
Vincent’s jaw tightened. "Does it matter?"
Ez’s throat went dry. This wasn’t just about the warehouse anymore. This was about control—about who called the shots when the family was fracturing.
And Ez was standing right in the middle of it.
Tommy’s hand landed on his shoulder, grip firm. "Gloves, Ez."
Ez didn’t move. "What happens if we don’t stop this?"
Vincent turned toward the door, his voice flat. "Then we lose more than a shipment."
The silence that followed wasn’t just tension—it was a promise.
Ez reached for his gloves.
Tommy slammed his fist against the warehouse wall, the hollow metal ringing like a gunshot. "I ain't walking away. Not now." His jaw clenched, the scar along his temple pulling tight. "Frankie Malone didn't either."
Dario didn’t move from where he stood by the rusted loading dock, but his stillness carried more weight than Tommy’s shouting. "Frankie made his choice because he thought it would keep the rest of us clean. You throwing yourself after him just pisses on that."
Ezra flicked the safety off his Glock with an audible click, not pointing it at anyone, just making sure the message landed. "Listen to the man, kid. This ain’t your fight to die in."
Tommy rounded on them, his boots kicking up dust from the cracked concrete. "The hell it isn’t! You think I’m gonna let them turn Frankie into some cautionary tale? ‘Don’t be like Malone, he cared too much’?" His voice cracked, raw. "Fuck that. He was family."
Vincent Moretti exhaled through his nose, watching from the shadows near the freight elevator. Dominic shifted beside him, fingers tapping against his thigh in a silent count—three seconds, then a pause. Like he was waiting for someone to say the wrong thing.
Dario stepped forward, just enough to put himself between Tommy and the exit.
"Frankie’s already gone. You going after him won’t change that. But walking out that door? That’ll get you dead before sunset."
His voice didn’t rise, didn’t need to. "And then I’ve got two bodies to explain instead of one."
Tommy shook his head, backing toward the rusted chain-link fencing separating the warehouse from the docks. "You don’t get it. They’re gonna keep coming. You think this ends with Frankie?" He jerked his chin toward Dominic. "Ask him how many guys Rinaldi’s got waiting for their shot."
Dominic’s fingers stilled. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
Ezra swore under his breath, holstering his gun. "Kid, you’re not hearing us. This ain’t about balls, it’s about brains. And right now, you’re fresh out."
Tommy’s hand went to the chain-link, fingers curling through the gaps like he could tear it down. "I’m done talking."
Vincent pushed off the wall then, his polished shoes silent against the concrete. "Then you’re done breathing." The words weren’t a threat—just fact. "You walk out that gate, you don’t come back. That’s the deal."
For the first time, Tommy hesitated. His knuckles whitened around the fencing.
Dario saw it—the split-second waver. He moved fast, closing the distance in three strides. "You want to honor Frankie?" He gripped Tommy’s shoulder, hard enough to bruise. "Then live. Because the only thing worse than him dying for nothing is you doing the same damn thing."
The warehouse exhaled around them, the scent of oil and salt air thick in the silence.
Tommy’s grip loosened. Just a fraction.
Then the freight elevator groaned, gears screeching as it shuddered to life behind them.
They all turned.
The red emergency light above the doors flickered once. Twice.
No one had called it.
Dario’s fingers tightened on Tommy’s shoulder. "Move. Now."
The chain-link rattled as Tommy let go.
The elevator doors slid open.
Empty.
But the scent hit them first—copper and something sweet, like rotting fruit.
Frankie Malone’s watch lay in the center of the elevator floor, its cracked face still ticking.
Ezra cursed, drawing his gun again. "That’s not possible."
Vincent’s expression didn’t change. "It is now."
Tommy took a step back, his breath coming fast. "What the hell is that?"
Dario didn’t answer. He was already reaching for his phone, dialing a number he hadn’t used in years.
The line picked up on the first ring.
A woman’s voice, amused. "Took you long enough."
Evelyn Crane.
Dario’s thumb hovered over the end call button. "We need to talk."
Her laugh was soft, dangerous. "Oh, darling. You have no idea."
The line went dead.
Tommy stared at the watch, his face pale. "Dario—"
"Shut up," Dario said, quiet. "And stay close."
The elevator doors began to close.
No one moved to stop them.
(New detail: Frankie’s watch, still ticking despite his confirmed death.)
Ezra leaned against the chipped brick wall outside the abandoned textile factory, the cold seeping through his jacket.
The watch in his pocket ticked faintly against his thigh—Frankie’s watch, still running despite everything.
He’d taken it from the elevator floor before they’d left, a stupid impulse he couldn’t explain.
Across the street, Dario Vitale stood under a flickering streetlamp, talking to one of his men. Even from here, Ez could see the way the man carried himself—like he owned the air around him. No wasted movement, no hesitation. The kind of man who didn’t just give orders but made sure they stuck.
Ez exhaled, watching his breath curl in the cold. He shouldn’t be here. He definitely shouldn’t be debating whether to walk over and open his damn mouth.
But Frankie was dead.
And the Morettis didn’t kill their own without reason.
Tommy had already bolted, dialing someone he shouldn’t. Ez had let him go. That was the first mistake. The second would be getting involved at all.
Dario dismissed his man with a nod and turned, scanning the street like he already knew Ez was there. Their eyes met. No surprise, no reaction. Just assessment.
Ez pushed off the wall.
"Vitale." He kept his voice low, casual. Like this wasn’t a terrible idea.
Dario didn’t move. "Ward."
No last names needed. They’d crossed paths before—enough to know the shape of each other, not enough to trust.
Ez jerked his chin toward the factory. "You know what happened in there?"
A pause. Then, deliberately: "I know what needed to happen."
That was the thing about Dario. He didn’t lie. Didn’t bother.
Ez’s fingers brushed the watch in his pocket. "Frankie Malone’s dead."
"I’m aware."
"His watch is still ticking."