Chapter 3 - The Blood on the LedgerBy 3:15 AM, the back booth of the Bluebird Grill looked less like a diner and more like a tactical command center.
Marcus Thorne, Dominic’s primary enforcer and shadow of fifteen years, stood by the front door with his hands folded neatly over his black trench coat. Marcus didn't carry weapons openly; he didn't need to. His reputation for making people disappear into the Greyhaven quarry was legendary enough.
Curtis Pike sat tied to a metal chair in the center of the dining room floor, a strip of grey duct tape sealing his trembling mouth.
Nora stood near the kitchen door, clutching the stack of hundred-dollar bills Dominic had given her like a lifeline. Her eyes were wide, the terror replaced by a stunned, trembling disbelief.
"Mr. Rinaldi," Nora whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator. "If the police come—"
"The police in Greyhaven don't visit the Bluebird unless I invite them, Nora," Dominic said calmly, walking over to the counter to pour himself a fresh cup of black coffee. He didn't look at Pike. "Marcus, cut the tape."
Marcus stepped forward with a small pocket knife and sliced the grey strip from Pike’s mouth.
Pike immediately gasped for air, sobbing hysterically. "Please! Please, Dominic! I didn't know she meant that much to you! If I'd known she was your—your girl—"
Dominic turned slowly, his coffee cup half-raised to his lips. "She isn't my girl, Curtis."
"Then why are you—"
"Because she has more integrity in her smallest finger than you have in your entire corrupted body," Dominic said coldly. He gestured to Marcus. "Empty his pockets."
Marcus stepped behind the chair, patting down Pike’s polyester trousers with practiced efficiency. Within seconds, a heavy gold signet ring, two cell phones, a set of master keys, and a thick wad of receipts hit the Formica table with a dull thud.
Marcus picked up one of the phones, swiped it using Pike's thumb, and handed it to Dominic.
"Look at this, Boss," Marcus muttered, his face dark. "Messages from Victor Vance."
Dominic stopped breathing for half a second.
Victor Vance. The name hung in the air like poison. Vance was the head of the rival Syndicate operating out of the West End docks—a man Dominic had been locked in a cold war with for over three years.
Dominic swiped through the text chain on Pike's phone.
Pike: The shipment from warehouse 4 is clear. Rinaldi's men won't check until Thursday. Vance: Good. Make sure the payroll records match. If Dominic smells blood, I want him looking at his own books, not mine.
May you like
Dominic’s fingers tightened around the phone until his knuckles turned white.
Curtis Pike wasn't just a petty thief stealing from his waitresses. He was a corporate mole feeding information to the city's most dangerous enemy, slowly bleeding the Rinaldi empire from the inside out while hiding behind grease-stained menus and cheap polyester shirts.
