CHAPTER 11 DOMINICS POWER PLAY #2
Dominic’s fingers tapped lightly against the tabletop. "Anthony’s his own man. Dario doesn’t control him."
"Doesn’t he?" Raymond’s gaze was piercing. "You’re smarter than that, Dominic. Dario’s playing a long game, and it’s costing us all. You think Vincent’s going to sit back and let this slide?"
Dominic’s chest tightened at the mention of Vincent Moretti. The family patriarch wasn’t known for his patience, especially when it came to financial matters. "Vincent trusts Dario," he said carefully.
"For now," Raymond countered. "But trust only goes so far when the numbers don’t add up. You’re in a position to see the damage firsthand. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed."
Dominic hesitated. He had noticed, of course. The expenses were mounting—payments to informants, bribes to officials, the cost of maintaining safe houses and equipment. Dario’s operations were meticulous, but they came with a price tag that was becoming harder to justify.
"What do you want me to do?" Dominic asked finally.
Raymond leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "I’m not asking you to do anything. Yet. But keep your eyes open. If Dario’s ambition starts to jeopardize the family, someone’s going to have to step in. And when that time comes, I need to know where you stand."
Dominic’s stomach churned at the implication. He had always respected Dario, admired his strategic mind and unwavering loyalty to the family. But Raymond’s words planted a seed of doubt, one that he couldn’t easily shake.
"I’ll keep that in mind," Dominic said quietly.
Raymond studied him for a moment longer before nodding. "Good. That’s all I’m asking." He stood, straightening his jacket. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Dominic."
As Raymond walked away, Dominic remained seated, his thoughts racing. He reached for his glass, the whiskey burning his throat as he took a long sip. The weight of Raymond’s words settled heavily on his shoulders, and for the first time, he felt the precariousness of his position.
Dario’s operation costs were spiraling, and Dominic couldn’t ignore the implications. If Vincent ever decided that Dario’s methods were too costly, the fallout would be catastrophic. And Dominic wasn’t sure where he’d stand when the dust settled.
The room around him seemed to close in, the laughter and chatter fading into the background.
Dominic’s fingers tightened around his glass, the crystal cool against his skin.
He had always prided himself on his ability to navigate the family’s politics, but now, he felt like he was walking on a knife’s edge.
And he wasn’t sure which side he’d fall on when it finally gave way.
Anthony Moretti pushed through the crowded dining room, his usual easy smile absent.
The clatter of silverware and low hum of conversation didn’t slow him as he made straight for the table where Dominic sat with Dario and Vincent.
His tie was slightly askew, a rare slip for a man who prided himself on appearances.
"Dom," Anthony said, gripping the back of an empty chair. "We need to talk."
Dominic didn’t look up from his drink. "Later."
"Now." Anthony’s knuckles whitened against the chair. "It’s about the family."
Dario set his fork down with deliberate calm. "Concerned about something specific, Anthony?"
Vincent leaned back, watching his younger brother with the quiet scrutiny of a man who already knew the answer. The restaurant’s dim lighting caught the silver at his temples, making him look older than he was.
Anthony exhaled through his nose. "The warehouse deal. The one you didn’t run by the rest of us." His gaze flicked to Dominic. "You’re cutting corners, and it’s going to bite us."
Dominic finally looked up, his jaw tight. "I made a call. It’s handled."
"Handled?" Anthony’s laugh was sharp. "You handed Costa territory to the Russians as a fucking goodwill gesture. You think they’ll stop at that?"
A waiter approached, hesitated at the tension radiating from the table, and retreated without a word.
Vincent tapped his fingers against the tablecloth. "Anthony’s not wrong."
Dario tilted his head. "But?"
"But it’s done." Vincent’s voice was final. "We adjust."
Anthony shook his head. "Adjust how? By waiting for them to push further? By letting Dom make deals that—"
"Enough." Dominic stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "You want to question my decisions, do it in private. Not here."
Anthony didn’t back down. "I’m not the one you should be worried about. Costa’s already got people asking why we’re giving ground."
Dario’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers stilled against his glass. That was new.
Vincent exhaled. "Raymond’s always got people asking questions."
"Not like this." Anthony lowered his voice. "He’s got a list. And Dom’s name’s at the top."
Dominic went very still.
The restaurant’s music swelled—some old Sinatra tune—but the table might as well have been underwater.
Dario spoke first. "Who told you that?"
Anthony hesitated. "Does it matter?"
"Yes." Dario’s tone was ice. "Because if it’s true, we have a problem. And if it’s not, you’re stirring shit for no reason."
Vincent pushed back from the table. "We’re done here." He tossed his napkin onto his plate. "Anthony, my office. One hour."
Anthony opened his mouth, then shut it. He gave Dominic one last look before turning on his heel.
Dominic didn’t watch him go. He stared at his drink like it held answers.
Dario leaned in, just enough to be heard over the music. "You knew about the list?"
Dominic’s thumb rubbed the rim of his glass. "I knew Costa was pissed."
"But not that you were on it."
Dominic didn’t answer.
Dario sat back. "That changes things."
Vincent paused at the edge of the table, his hand resting on Dominic’s shoulder. A warning or reassurance—it was hard to tell. "One hour," he repeated, and left.
Dominic finally met Dario’s gaze. "You got a play?"
Dario smiled, thin and humorless. "I always do."
The waiter returned, this time with the check. Dominic tossed a handful of bills onto the table without counting.
Outside, the streetlights flickered. Somewhere in the distance, a car backfired.
Neither of them flinched.
Vincent's fingers tightened on Dominic's shoulder. "We need to talk about Dario."
Dominic exhaled through his nose, watching the waiter scoop up the cash without a word. "He's been stepping over lines."
"Lines?" Raymond Costa leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. "He's vaulting fences now. That mess with the Albanians—"
"Was handled," Evelyn cut in, her nails tapping the rim of her untouched wineglass. "Cleaner than if we'd followed protocol."
Anthony Moretti snorted. "Clean doesn't mean sanctioned. He didn't clear it with Vincent."
Vincent's thumb rubbed absently at the scar on his knuckle. "He didn't clear the last three."
The silence stretched. A busboy dropped a tray in the kitchen; the clatter made Dominic's jaw twitch.
Evelyn set her glass down with deliberate precision. "You want him reined in."
"Or removed," Costa said flatly.
Dominic's chair scraped as he stood. "He's earned the autonomy."
"Autonomy isn't unilateral," Vincent said. "Not in this family."
Evelyn's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Dario's definition of family seems... flexible."
Anthony shoved his plate away, the silverware rattling. "He's using Crane's contacts without oversight. That's not merely insubordination—it's a liability."
Vincent's gaze locked onto Evelyn. "You've been facilitating it."
She didn't blink. "I've been mitigating the fallout."
Costa's laugh was a dry rasp. "Bullshit. You're playing both sides."
Dominic braced his hands on the table. "We don't remove a consigliere because he's too good at his job."
Vincent's voice dropped. "We remove him when he stops taking orders."
The restaurant's front door opened, letting in a gust of cold air and the scent of fried dough from the street vendor outside. A new detail: the vendor's cart had a broken wheel, tilted slightly to the left.
Evelyn traced a finger through the condensation on her glass. "If you clip Dario's wings, who handles the problems he's been keeping off your desk?"
Vincent's smile was thin. "That's the question, isn't it?"
Dominic exhaled sharply. "You don't have a replacement."
"No," Vincent agreed. "But I have a line."
Costa pushed to his feet. "Then it's time to find out if Dario Vitale respects it."
The door swung shut behind a trio of laughing tourists, muffling the street noise. Anthony picked at the edge of the tablecloth, a loose thread unraveling under his fingernail. "Respect's never been his problem. It's the interpretation that gets slippery."
Evelyn tilted her head toward the kitchen, where the clatter of pans had gone suspiciously quiet. "You think he's got ears in here?"
Vincent didn't glance away from the street vendor. The man was adjusting the broken wheel with a rusty wrench, his breath fogging in the air. "Wouldn't you?"
Dominic cracked his knuckles. "We're sitting here debating his loyalty while he's probably rewriting the books."
A waiter approached with a fresh carafe of water, his steps measured. Raymond caught his wrist before he could pour. "Give us the room." The man nodded, retreating without a word.
Evelyn waited until the kitchen door swung closed again. "If we move on Dario, it can't look like a purge. The Germans will smell blood."
"Then we make it personal," Anthony said. "He's got a temper. Use it."
Vincent finally turned back to the table. "The Albanians still want his head over that warehouse fire. Might be time to let slip where he takes his espresso."
Dominic's mouth twisted. "You'd feed him to those animals?"
"No," Vincent said. "I'd let him walk into the cage himself." He tapped the table twice. "Evelyn, set up a meet with Crane. Let's see how deep those contacts really go."
She hesitated—just a fraction of a second—before nodding. Costa caught it. "Problem?"
"Only that Crane doesn't take well to being tested." She folded her napkin into precise quarters. "And if he sides with Dario?"