Chapter 3 - The Gathering Storm
The private dining room on the top floor of Il Gabbiano smelled of truffles, old brandy, and suppressed panic.
Four men sat around the mahogany table. They were capos of the Moretti family — old-timers who had served under Dominic's father, men with scarred knuckles, tailored suits, and eyes that had seen too many bodies dropped into the East River. None of them were eating. All of them were looking at the man at the head of the table.
Dominic Moretti sat in silence. He hadn't touched his wine. His hands rested flat on the dark wood, fingers spread, perfectly still.
"Boss," Salvatore, the oldest of the four, finally broke the silence, clearing his throat. "We heard about... what happened at Lennox Hill last night. The kids. Word travels fast when you check two children into a private wing under a shielded account."
"Let it travel," Dominic said. His voice was quiet, almost conversational, which made the men tighten instinctively in their seats.
"That's just it, Dominic," Salvatore pressed gently, leaning forward. "The kids... they’re Rossis. Everyone in Brooklyn remembers Elena Rossi. She was your ghost, if you'll pardon the expression. The one person you kept off the books. If the other families — the Marconis, or the Luccheses — put two and two together... they’ll see those kids as leverage."
Dominic slowly raised his gaze. His eyes were like chips of dark winter ice. "Let them try."
"It's not about trying, it's about exposure," chimed in Marco, a younger capo with sharp features and a reputation for ruthlessness on the docks. "You've got an empire to run, Dominic. We're at a delicate junction with the port expansion. Bringing two kids — orphans of a woman you used to keep — into your penthouse? It makes you vulnerable. It gives people a handle."
"A handle," Dominic repeated, the word tasting like ash. "You think protection is a vulnerability, Marco?"
"I think sentimentality is a bullet with your name on it," Marco replied, though he immediately dropped his gaze under Dominic's stare.
Dominic stood up. The movement was so sudden, so smooth, that all four men stiffened, their hands drifting instinctively toward their jackets.
He didn't reach for a weapon. He simply walked to the end of the long room, where a floor-to-ceiling window looked out over the glittering expanse of Manhattan under the gray dawn.
"Listen to me very carefully," Dominic said, his back to them. "Those children are currently sleeping in my penthouse. They have twenty-four-hour medical surveillance, three guards outside the door, and a pediatrician on retainer. They are eating warm soup and wearing clothes that cost more than Marco’s first car."
He turned back to face them, his expression deadpan, absolute.
"If anyone — anyone — from the other families so much as asks a question about who those children are, you will remind them of what happened to the last man who tried to look into my private affairs."
The room went dead silent. Salvatore swallowed hard and nodded slowly. "Understood, Boss."
"Good. Now, find me the driver of the car that hit Elena Rossi two months ago."
Marco blinked in surprise. "The hit-and-run? Boss, that was written off by the NYPD as an accident. Drunk driver, no plates recovered, case cold."
"Make it warm," Dominic said, his voice dropping an octave. "Find out who was behind the wheel. I want a name by midnight."
"Consider it done," Salvatore murmured, standing up and motioning for the others to follow.
As the heavy oak door clicked shut behind his capos, Dominic walked back to his seat and sank slowly into his chair. He reached inside his coat, his fingers finding the silver pendant. E.
He had spent his entire life building walls to keep the world out. He had thought that by cutting Elena loose, he had kept her safe from the monsters he called his associates. But the universe was crueler than that. It had taken her while he sat in high-rise boardrooms talking about percentage points and territory lines.
And now, her children were in his hands. Not as a burden. As a debt.
The secure phone on the table buzzed. It was a direct line from the penthouse.
Dominic picked it up immediately. "Talk to me."
Victor’s voice came through, unusually tense. "Boss, you need to get up here. Sophia woke up. She won't let the private nurse near her, and she's asking for her doll. The problem is... the doll isn't in her room. And she's screaming."
Dominic frowned. "What do you mean, the doll isn't in her room?"
"When we brought her in from the hospital this morning, I set the doll on the entryway console while we got her settled. It's gone."
May you like
Dominic's heart gave a strange, violent jerk. He remembered holding that doll in the alley. He remembered setting it down on the mahogany table in his private study when they arrived at the penthouse three hours ago.
"Stay there," Dominic said, his voice sharp. "I'm coming up."
