CHAPTER 13 TOMMY MAKES HIS MOVE #3
A beat of silence. Tommy exhaled sharply. "You're burning your own place to frame him?"
Vitale's expression didn't change. "We're burning a problem. And if Dominic eats the blame?" He shrugged. "Even better."
Ezra pulled out a second burner phone and pressed it into Tommy's palm. "One call when you're in. We move fast after that."
Tommy weighed the phone, the unspoken threat in Ezra's grip. "And if he checks the story?"
Anthony smiled. "Then I hope you run faster than his trigger finger."
From the shadows by the door, Paul Rizzo chuckled. "Relax, kid. Worst case, you die useful."
Vitale snapped the file shut. "Get him a change of clothes. And a vest."
Tommy didn't ask if it was bulletproof. He already knew the answer.
Dario watched Tommy across the warehouse floor, the kid’s knuckles white around the grip of his pistol. Dominic’s smirk was a blade twisting between them—he’d orchestrated this, pushing Tommy into the open, forcing Dario’s hand.
"You got a choice to make, Vitale." Dominic leaned against the rusted shipping container, the dim overhead light catching the silver in his teeth. "Him or the table. Can’t have both."
Ezra shifted at Dario’s side, tension coiled in his shoulders. "He’s baiting you."
Dario knew. Tommy was good—too good—and that made him a liability. The kid had taken bullets for him, bled for him, but loyalty like that drew attention. The wrong kind.
Tommy’s voice cracked. "Tell me what to do."
Politics demanded distance. A consigliere didn’t keep favorites, didn’t let sentiment muddy strategy. But the kid was staring at him like he still believed Dario could pull miracles out of thin air.
Dominic’s phone buzzed. "Vincent’s waiting on your answer."
The warehouse reeked of motor oil and damp concrete. A single drop of Tommy’s blood smeared the floor where he’d stumbled earlier—small, dark, already drying. Dario catalogued it, the way he did every detail.
Ezra exhaled through his nose. "We walk out now, we still control the narrative."
But Tommy wouldn’t make it to the door. Dominic’s men flanked the exits, fingers resting easy near their triggers.
Dario stepped forward. "You’re done talking for me."
Dominic’s grin widened. "Yeah? Then who’s—"
The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space.
Dominic staggered, his shoulder exploding in a spray of crimson.
Dario didn’t look at the smoking barrel in his hand.
He watched Tommy instead—the way the kid’s breath hitched, the way his grip on his own weapon tightened like he was bracing for the world to end.
"Vincent wants loyalty?" Dario’s voice cut through the ringing silence. "Tell him he just lost a captain."
Dominic collapsed against the container, swearing through clenched teeth. Ezra moved like lightning, disarming the nearest threat before the man could clear his holster.
Tommy swallowed hard. "They’ll come for you."
"Yeah." Dario ejected the spent casing. It hit the concrete with a sharp ping. "But not today."
The warehouse door burst open. Paul Rizzo stood framed in the light, his expression caught between amusement and disbelief. "Jesus Christ, Vitale."
Dario didn’t answer. He was already moving, Tommy falling into step beside him like it was the only place he belonged.
Behind them, Dominic spat blood onto the floor. "You’re dead. Both of you."
Dario didn’t turn around. The choice was made. Let the consequences come.
Paul’s men fanned out, securing the exits with practiced efficiency, but Dario kept walking. Tommy matched his stride, close enough that their elbows brushed—close enough to take a bullet meant for the other. The kid’s breathing was steady now, his grip on the pistol looser, more deliberate.
"You just made an enemy of the Rizzos," Paul said, falling in step with them. His voice was low, meant for Dario’s ears alone. "And for what? A soldier?"
Dario didn’t slow. "You here to negotiate, Paul, or gloat?"
Paul’s laugh was sharp. "Neither. I’m here because Vincent’s losing his goddamn mind, and you just handed him a reason to burn the city down."
Tommy stiffened beside him, but Dario kept his eyes ahead. The alley outside was empty, the street beyond it too quiet for this time of night. No witnesses. No backup. Just the weight of the choice settling over them like smoke.
Ezra materialized at Dario’s other side, wiping blood from his knuckles. "We’ve got maybe ten minutes before they regroup."
Paul swore under his breath. "You’re out of allies, Vitale. Even your own table won’t back this play."
"Then it’s a good thing I don’t need them." Dario turned to face him, the streetlight carving harsh lines across his face. "You want to stand in my way?"
Paul hesitated—just a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Tommy’s fingers twitched toward his holster, and Paul’s gaze flicked to him, then back to Dario.
"Christ," Paul muttered. "You’re really betting everything on him?"
Dario didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Tommy exhaled, slow and deliberate. "I don’t need you to bet on me," he said, quiet but clear. "Just tell me where to aim."
Paul shook his head. "You’re both gonna get buried."
"Not tonight." Dario stepped past him, Tommy at his back, Ezra covering their flank. The city stretched ahead, dark and waiting.
Behind them, Dominic’s voice echoed from the warehouse, raw with fury. "Vitale! You hear me? You’re dead!"
Dario didn’t look back. The kid kept pace beside him, and for the first time in years, the politics didn’t matter.
Let Vincent come. Let the table disavow him. The only thing that counted now was the next move.
Tommy’s shoulder bumped his. "Where to?"
Dario reached into his coat, pulling out a set of keys. "Somewhere they won’t think to look."
Ezra snorted. "That’s a short list."
"Then we’d better move fast."
The engine roared to life, and the night swallowed them whole.