Chapter 4 - The Sins of Pier 44
Vittorio didn't try to run. He knew the math as well as I did. With Enzo, Marcus, and me blocking the only exit, running meant taking a high-velocity hollow-point slug to the spine before he even cleared the doorway.
Instead, he let out a low, humorless chuckle, leaning his hips back against the steel filing cabinet.
“You always were too smart for the room, Dominic,” Vittorio said, shaking his head. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a gold-plated lighter, and flicked a small blue flame to life, lighting a fresh cigarette despite the No Smoking sign painted on the brick wall. “You build an empire on fear, but you never understood the baseline economics of loyalty.”
“Explain it to me,” I said, keeping the barrel of my pistol steady against the center of his chest. “Before I let Enzo open you up with a fillet knife.”
Vittorio took a long drag of the cigarette, exhaling a thin cloud of gray smoke toward the copper ceiling.
“The syndicates are changing, Boss,” he said smoothly, gesturing with the cigarette like a corporate lecturer at a board meeting. “The old ways—blood oaths, family loyalty, handshakes over espresso—are dead. The younger captains in Brooklyn don't want to answer to an old-school boss who spends his nights brooding over a dead wife and a paralyzed shipping lane. They want expansion. They want tech, real estate, and clean digital ledgers.”
“And you were going to be their new chairman,” I said.
“I am going to be their new chairman,” Vittorio corrected, a smug, arrogant smile touching the corners of his mouth. “And to do that, I needed leverage over you. I needed to prove to the board that Dominic Salvatore has gone soft. That the great, untouchable kingpin of the North District was so crippled by sentimentality that a stray kid with a puppy could walk in and pull his strings.”
He glanced down at Elena, who was still huddled in her chair, trembling with her hands over her ears.
“The woman—Sarah O’Shea—is a social worker who stumbled onto one of our money-laundering fronts in the community clinic,” Vittorio continued, his voice entirely devoid of remorse. “She didn't know who we were. She just started asking questions about missing Medicaid funds. I was going to drop her in the river last night. But then I realized... a dead body makes a terrible messenger. A living hostage, kept just out of reach, waiting for a savior who never arrives? That breaks a man much faster.”
“You used her mother to trap me,” I said, the words tasting like copper and ash in my mouth.
“I used her mother to test you,” Vittorio corrected. “And you failed, Dominic. You brought the kid inside. You let a stranger into the inner sanctum. You’ve lost your edge. The board is meeting at midnight at the warehouse on 11th Street. They’re ready to vote you out. And when they do, your body will be found in the trunk of a stolen Lincoln with a bag of heroin in your lap.”
He took one final drag of his cigarette, tossed the burning butt onto the concrete floor, and crushed it beneath the heel of his Italian leather shoe with a deliberate, defiant crunch.
“Do it,” Vittorio whispered, lifting his chin and spreading his arms wide. “Kill me here in front of the crew. Prove that you’re just a common thug who settles disputes with a gun instead of business sense. See how long your captains follow a dead man.”
The room held its breath.
Frankie Moretti stared at me with wide, terrified eyes. Enzo’s finger tightened fractionally on the trigger of his gun, waiting for my word. Marcus watched my face, looking for any sign of hesitation.
If I shot Vittorio right here, right now, it would validate everything he had just said. It would look like a panic-driven execution by a paranoid boss losing his grip on the throne.
I lowered my pistol by half an inch.
Vittorio’s smug smile widened. He thought he had won. He thought he had checkmated me in my own war room.
“You’re right, Vittorio,” I said softly.
His smile flickered for a fraction of a second. “What?”
“Shooting you here would be messy,” I continued, stepping closer until I was standing right in front of him, smelling the stale tobacco and expensive cologne on his collar. “It would make noise. It would require paperwork with the board. And as you pointed out... I’m a businessman.”
I turned my head slightly toward my chief enforcer.
“Enzo.”
“Boss?”
“Take Vittorio down to the basement holding cells. Lock him in the iron cage. Take his phone, his wallet, his belt, and his shoes. Leave him in the dark with a bucket of water and twenty-four hours to think about corporate governance.”
May you like
Vittorio’s smug expression vanished instantly, replaced by a flash of genuine panic. “Wait—Dominic, you can't lock me in a cell like an animal! The board is meeting at midnight! If I'm not there—!”
“The board won't be meeting tonight, Vittorio,” I interrupted, my voice dropping into an icy register that made even Enzo step back. “Because tonight, we’re going to Pier 44.”
