CHAPTER 11 DOMINICS POWER PLAY #3
Vincent stood, straightening his cuffs. "Then we'll know which lines are already crossed."
Outside, the street vendor gave up on the wheel and kicked it. The cart lurched, sending a cloud of powdered sugar into the wind like fine, dissolving ash.
Vincent Moretti watched silently from his office window as the powdered sugar settled on the pavement below.
The street vendor's frustration had been brief, pointless—like most human outbursts.
His fingers tapped once against the glass, a silent count.
Three floors down, Dario Vitale stepped out of the building's shadow, his stride unhurried, his coat catching the wind like a banner.
Dominic leaned against the desk behind him, flipping a silver lighter open and shut. "You're letting him walk out of here without an answer."
"He already has one." Vincent didn't turn. The glass reflected Dominic's frown back at him, warped by the old imperfections in the pane. A hairline fracture ran diagonally across the lower right corner, a relic from some long-forgotten incident. "He just doesn't like it."
Raymond Costa cleared his throat from the doorway. "Crane's people are watching the block. Two cars, alternating shifts."
Anthony, slouched in the armchair by the bookshelf, snorted. "Let them watch. They won't see shit."
Vincent's gaze didn't leave the street. Dario had paused by the vendor's cart, exchanging words too quiet to carry. The vendor shook his head, shoulders hunched. Dario slid a bill across the counter.
"Problem?" Dominic asked.
"Only if he makes it one." Vincent finally turned from the window. The office smelled of leather and gun oil, the safe behind the false panel humming faintly from the dehumidifier. "Crane wants leverage. Dario won't give it to him."
Raymond shifted his weight. "And if Crane pushes?"
"Then we remind him what happens to men who reach beyond their station." Vincent smoothed his cuff. The fabric was Italian, the stitching precise. A small thing, but details mattered. "Dominic. The shipment from Baltimore."
"Delayed." Dominic snapped the lighter shut. "Customs flagged the wrong container. They'll clear it by Thursday."
"Move it up." Vincent didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. "I want it unloaded before Crane's people finish their sweep of the docks."
Anthony sat forward, elbows on his knees. "You think he's looking to intercept?"
"I think he's looking for anything he can use." Vincent glanced back out the window. Dario was gone, the street empty save for the vendor wiping sugar from his hands. "And I won't let him find it."
A knock at the door. Evelyn Crane stepped inside without waiting for permission, her heels silent on the Persian rug. "Vincent." She smiled, all teeth. "We need to talk."
Dominic's hand stilled on the lighter. Raymond took half a step back, instinctive. Anthony's jaw tightened.
Vincent met her gaze. "Do we?"
Her smile didn't waver. "Unless you'd rather I take it up with Dario directly."
The office went very still.
Vincent inclined his head, just once. "Close the door."
Dominic moved first, brushing past Raymond to shut it with a soft click. The lock engaged.
Evelyn's perfume was jasmine and something sharper, chemical. "Your consigliere," she said, "has been asking the wrong questions."
Vincent didn't blink. "And you're here to provide answers?"
"I'm here to remind you." She tilted her head, the light catching the silver in her earrings. "The rules apply to everyone. Even him."
Outside, a car backfired. The sound echoed off the brick, sharp as a warning shot.
Vincent smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Then by all means," he said. "Remind me."
Dominic's fingers tightened around the lighter.
Evelyn reached into her coat.
The new detail: the hairline fracture in the office window, a relic from some past violence no one ever repaired.
Dominic leaned against the mahogany bar, swirling his bourbon like he had all the time in the world.
The private back room of Vitale's social club hummed with low conversation, the scent of cigar smoke and expensive cologne thick in the air.
Across the room, Dario stood near the fireplace, his posture relaxed but his eyes tracking every movement like a hawk.
Raymond Costa slid onto the stool beside Dominic, nodding to the bartender for another drink. "You're playing a dangerous game," he murmured, barely moving his lips.
Dominic smirked. "Only kind worth playing." He tilted his glass toward Anthony and Evelyn, deep in conversation by the window. "Three votes secured before the meeting even starts. That's not dangerous—that's just good math."
Raymond's knuckles whitened around his glass. "Dario's not going to take this lying down."
"Wouldn't respect him if he did." Dominic drained his drink and set it down with a sharp click. "But he's been operating like he's untouchable. Time to remind him no one is."
The double doors swung open, and Vincent Moretti entered, his presence sucking the air from the room. Conversations died mid-sentence. Dominic straightened as Vincent's gaze swept over them, lingering on Dario by the hearth before moving to the empty chair at the head of the table.
"Let's begin," Vincent said.
Dominic took his seat, watching as Evelyn settled between Anthony and Raymond. The critical votes, all aligned against Dario before the first motion was even raised.
Vincent steepled his fingers. "The matter of the Brooklyn shipments."
Dario didn't flinch. "Already handled."
"By cutting Rinaldi out entirely?" Vincent's voice stayed mild, but the weight behind it made the hair on Dominic's neck rise. "Without consultation?"
Dario's smile didn't reach his eyes. "You wanted it resolved. I resolved it."
Anthony cleared his throat. "Cost us two men and a warehouse. That's not resolved—that's scorched earth."
Dominic saw his opening. "And now the Calabresis are sniffing around our docks. That's the problem with burning bridges—someone always smells the smoke." He leaned forward. "We need strategy, not merely cleanup."
The room went still. Dominic felt the shift, the moment the balance tipped. Evelyn's fingers tapped once against the table—their agreed signal.
Vincent's gaze settled on Dario. "You've always had discretion before."
Dario's jaw tightened. "Discretion takes time. We didn't have it."
"That's the issue, isn't it?" Dominic spread his hands. "No one's questioning your results. Just your methods." He paused, letting the silence stretch. "And who answers for them."
Vincent exhaled slowly. "We'll table the Brooklyn discussion. For now." He stood, and the room rose with him. "Dario. My office. Ten minutes."
Dominic didn't look at Dario as he left. He didn't need to. The tension in the room was answer enough—he'd won this round. But as he caught Evelyn's eye across the table, the flicker of warning there reminded him: victories against Dario Vitale always came with a price.
Raymond caught his arm on the way out. "That'll cost you," he muttered.
Dominic adjusted his cufflinks. "Already factored it in."
Outside, the first drops of rain hit the pavement. The storm was coming. And for the first time, Dominic wondered if he'd miscalculated how hard it would break.