CHAPTER 25 THE MIDNIGHT MEETING #2
“It’s not a game,” Dario said, leaning forward now, his hands resting on the table. “It’s survival. And if you’re not going to lead, someone has to.”
The silence that followed was heavy, charged with the weight of unspoken threats. Vincent’s gaze bore into Dario’s, searching for something—weakness, defiance, maybe both. Dario held his ground, his expression impassive but his eyes sharp with intent.
Finally, Vincent leaned back, his lips curling into a humorless smile. “You’re lucky I need you, Dario. But don’t mistake that for trust. You’ve been useful, but usefulness has its limits.”
Dario didn’t respond immediately, letting the words hang in the air. He knew the stakes, the delicate balance of power he was navigating. Vincent’s warning was clear, but so was the unspoken truth: Dario wasn’t easily replaceable. Not yet.
“Understood,” Dario said finally, his tone measured. “But while you’re deciding how much leeway to give me, remember this: the Albanians aren’t waiting. Neither are our other enemies. If you want to protect this family, you need to decide who’s leading it.”
Vincent’s smile faded, replaced by a cold, calculating stare. “Careful, Dario. You’re not the only one who can make decisions.”
Dario stood, his movements deliberate. “Then make them. But don’t wait too long.”
He turned and walked out, leaving Vincent alone in the room.
The faint hum of the city outside seemed louder now, a reminder of the world waiting beyond the walls, full of threats and opportunities alike.
Dario’s steps were steady, but his mind was already moving, calculating the next move in a game where the rules kept shifting.
Vincent leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight.
His fingers tapped against the armrest, a steady, impatient rhythm.
Across the room, Dominic stood by the window, his silhouette framed by the dim glow of the city lights.
Anthony lingered near the door, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
Evelyn sat in the corner, her presence quiet but impossible to ignore.
Dario stood at the center of it all, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. "Decades," he began, his voice calm but edged with steel, "and this is where we are. Debating loyalty as if it's a commodity we can trade."
Vincent's jaw tightened. "Loyalty doesn't mean blind obedience, Dario. Recent events have made that clear."
"Recent events," Dario echoed, his tone dry. "You mean the betrayals that could've been avoided if we'd acted sooner."
Dominic turned from the window, his voice low but firm. "We’re not here to rehash old wounds. We’re here to decide what comes next."
"And what comes next," Dario said, "depends on whether we’re still a family or just a collection of individuals looking out for themselves."
Vincent’s fingers stilled. "You’re questioning my leadership?"
"I’m questioning the decisions that put us here," Dario replied, his gaze unwavering. "You’ve been too cautious, Vincent. Caution has its place, but not when it costs us ground."
Anthony stepped forward, his voice cutting through the room. "And what would you have us do? Charge headfirst into every fight? That’s not strategy, Dario. That’s recklessness."
"Strategy," Dario said, "requires trust. Trust that we’re all working toward the same goal. Recent actions have eroded that trust."
Evelyn’s voice broke the silence, soft but deliberate. "Trust isn’t the issue. The issue is control. Who has it, who wants it, and who’s willing to risk everything to keep it."
All eyes turned to her, the weight of her words settling over the room. Dario’s gaze flicked to her, a brief acknowledgment of her insight.
Vincent leaned forward, his voice low. "You think I’m clinging to control?"
"I think," Evelyn said, "that control is an illusion. The tighter you try to hold onto it, the more it slips away."
Dominic’s lips pressed into a thin line. "This isn’t helping. We need a plan, not a philosophical debate."
"A plan," Dario said, "starts with clarity. Who are we loyal to? The family? Or ourselves?"
Vincent’s eyes narrowed. "You’re walking a dangerous line, Dario."
"I’ve been walking that line for years," Dario replied. "The question is, are you willing to step onto it with me?"
The room fell silent, the tension thick enough to cut. Anthony shifted his weight, his hand brushing against the hilt of the knife at his belt. Evelyn’s gaze flicked to him, a silent warning.
Vincent finally broke the silence, his voice heavy with resolve. "We’ll reconvene tomorrow. Everyone think about what’s at stake. Loyalty isn’t just a word. It’s a choice."
Dario nodded, his expression unreadable. "Then I’ll see you tomorrow."
He turned and walked out, the door closing softly behind him.
The room remained silent, the weight of the debate lingering in the air.
Vincent leaned back in his chair, his fingers resuming their tapping.
Dominic stared out the window, his reflection ghostly in the glass.
Anthony glanced at Evelyn, a question in his eyes, but she offered no answers.
The city hummed outside, indifferent to the turmoil within. But within these walls, the stakes were clear. Loyalty, betrayal, and control—these were the threads that bound them together, and the ones that could tear them apart.
Vincent’s fingers stilled against the armrest, his usual restless energy gone rigid.
He’d been mid-sentence, something about territory lines and the Costello crew, when his voice cut off.
His other hand jerked to his chest, fingers clutching the fabric of his suit like he could dig through to whatever had seized him.
His breath hitched, sharp and shallow, before his knees gave out.
Dario was across the room before Vincent’s body hit the floor. He caught him by the shoulders, easing him down before his head could crack against the hardwood. Vincent’s skin had gone ashen, sweat beading along his hairline. His lips moved, but no sound came out—just a wet, uneven gasp.
Evelyn was already pulling her phone from her pocket. “I’ll call—”
“No.” Dominic’s voice cracked like a whip. He crouched beside Dario, pressing two fingers to Vincent’s throat. His own pulse was a visible throb at his temple. “No hospitals. No outsiders.”
Anthony shoved the coffee table aside, sending a crystal ashtray skidding. “Then what the fuck do we do?” The question wasn’t a plea. It was a demand, aimed at Dario.
Dario ignored him. He pried Vincent’s hand away from his chest, flattening his palm over the spot instead. The heartbeat beneath was erratic, skipping like a broken record. He’d seen this once before, years ago, when an old capo had dropped dead mid-meeting. No warning. No second chance.
Vincent’s eyes locked onto his, the dark irises blown wide with something too close to understanding. His mouth shaped a word—don’t—before his body arched off the floor, muscles seizing.
Evelyn swore, low and vicious. She dropped to her knees beside Dominic, her hands hovering over Vincent’s heaving ribs. “This isn’t a heart attack.” Her voice was steady, but the tendons in her neck stood taut. “It’s too violent. Something’s wrong.”
Dario didn’t need the confirmation. He’d seen the way Vincent’s pupils had dilated, black swallowing brown in seconds. Not natural. Not human.
“The ledger,” Dominic said suddenly. He twisted toward Anthony. “The one from the Bianchi raid. Where is it?”
Anthony’s jaw worked. “Safe house. Why?”
Dominic didn’t answer. He grabbed Vincent’s wrist, turning it palm-up. The veins stood out stark beneath the skin, but that wasn’t what caught Dario’s eye. A thin, jagged mark ran from the base of Vincent’s thumb to his wrist—fresh, but not bleeding. As if something beneath the skin had split open.
Evelyn saw it too. Her breath hissed between her teeth. “That wasn’t there an hour ago.”
Dominic’s grip on Vincent’s arm tightened. “Get the ledger. Now.”
Anthony didn’t move. “Tell me why.”
“Because our brother made a deal,” Dominic said, the words bitten off. “And it just came due.”
Vincent’s back slammed against the floor again, his heels scrabbling for purchase. His lips peeled back from his teeth in a silent snarl, tendons standing out in his neck. The mark on his wrist darkened, the edges spreading like ink in water.
Dario kept his hand pressed to Vincent’s chest, feeling the frantic stutter beneath his palm. The rules were simple: debts got paid. Always.
But Vincent Moretti didn’t beg. Didn’t bargain.
Which meant whatever held his pulse hostage wasn’t asking.
Dario stepped back from Vincent’s prone body, his hand lingering for a fraction too long before he withdrew it.
The mark on Vincent’s wrist had stopped spreading, but the skin around it looked raw, almost scorched.
He glanced at Dominic, who stood frozen by the door, his face pale and his knuckles white where they gripped the frame.
Anthony was pacing the room, his boots thudding against the hardwood floor, his agitation a tangible force.
Evelyn hovered near the window, her arms crossed, her gaze flicking between Vincent and Dario with a sharpness that made his skin prickle.
“He’ll live,” Dario said, his voice calm, though his mind was already spinning the threads of what needed to be done next. “But this can’t leave this room.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened. “And how do you propose we explain this?” He gestured wildly at Vincent, who was still unconscious, his breathing uneven. “You think anyone’s going to buy ‘natural causes’ when he looks like he’s been through a fucking exorcism?”
Dario’s gaze didn’t waver. “We arrange the scene.” He turned to Anthony, who had stopped pacing to glare at him. “Get the med kit. Clean him up. Make it look like he overexerted himself. A heart episode, maybe. Something plausible.”
Anthony hesitated, his expression torn between disbelief and obedience. “You’re serious? You want us to fake a medical emergency?”
“Yes,” Dario said, his tone clipped. “Because the alternative is explaining why the boss’s brother has a fucking curse mark on his wrist. Think about it.”