PART 4: Walking into the Lion’s Den
PART 4: Walking into the Lion’s Den
Elite syndicates bow to absolute authority.
The private social club on Mulberry Street looked like an ordinary, unassuming Italian restaurant from the outside, complete with a faded red awning and a chalkboard menu advertising fresh espresso and pastries.
Inside, however, it was the nerve center of Vincent Russo’s illicit operations in Manhattan.
When my three SUVs pulled up directly onto the sidewalk, blocking traffic and jumping the curb, four armed lookouts stationed near the entrance froze in sheer terror.
They didn't reach for their weapons.
They knew the black-plated plates of my vehicles.
They knew the men stepping out in dark suits and tactical gear behind me.
Dante kicked the heavy oak front door wide open, the loud crash echoing off the marble foyer as we flooded into the dining room where Vincent and his two Genovese captains were sipping espresso over morning financials.
Vincent jumped up from his chair so fast he knocked it backward against the floor, his face draining of all color as he stared at me walking through the center of his club.
"Daniel... Boss!" Vincent stammered, forcing a sweaty, nervous smile across his pale lips. "We weren't expecting you... what is the meaning of this? Is there a problem with the warehouse shipments?"
I didn't answer right away.
I walked slowly across the dining room, pulling off my leather gloves and tossing them onto his table right beside his half-empty espresso cup.
"Sit down, Vincent," I commanded softly.
He swallowed hard, his knees shaking as he slowly lowered himself back into his seat.
The two Genovese captains looked at each other, their hands hovering near their jackets, trying to calculate whether they could draw their weapons before my men put bullets through their chests.
"Put your hands on the table where I can see them," Dante ordered the captains, pressing the barrel of a suppressed pistol against the back of the nearest man's chair.
The hands instantly went flat against the wood.
I pulled out the chair directly opposite Vincent, sat down, and crossed one leg over the other, staring at my former lieutenant with a cold, terrifying stillness.
"You look nervous, Vincent," I observed quietly. "You've been eating at my table for eleven years. Why does my presence in yours make you sweat?"
"I don't... I don't know what you mean, Boss," Vincent lied, his voice cracking slightly as he wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief. "Everything we do is transparent. The accounts are clean."
I reached inside my overcoat, pulled out Lucas Moreno’s charred, transparent-sleeved ledger, and slid it across the white tablecloth until it rested directly against Vincent’s coffee mug.
Vincent stared down at the book.
May you like
His breath stopped entirely.
The color vanished from his face, leaving him looking like a corpse sitting upright in a chair.
