Chapter 6 - Blood on the Green Felt
The private card room in the basement of the brownstone on 54th Street in Manhattan smelled of stale cigar smoke, expensive bourbon, and the heavy, metallic scent of impending violence.
Four men sat around a green felt table beneath the amber glow of a vintage brass chandelier. At the head of the table sat Vincent Moretti, his silver hair impeccably combed, a crystal tumbler of scotch resting between his manicured fingers. He was laughing softly at something one of the capos had said, leaning back in his leather chair with all the casual arrogance of a man who believed he had won the game of chess before his opponent even knew the board was set.
"Dominic is losing his edge," Vincent murmured, taking a sip of his drink. "Chasing ghosts in Queens. Tearing apart container yards that haven't seen a contraband box in six months. Give him another month, and the council will vote to transition leadership to a more... stable hand."
The capos murmured in agreement, raising their glasses in silent toast.
None of them heard the heavy iron security door at the end of the basement hallway hit the floor with a deafening crash.
The lock didn't pick; the entire reinforced steel frame was kicked inward by a force so violent it splintered the surrounding masonry.
Vincent bolted upright, his glass slipping from his fingers and shattering against the hardwood floor, amber liquid splashing across the Persian rug like spilled blood.
Out of the smoke and shadows of the hallway stepped Dominic Romano.
His wool overcoat was unbuttoned. His face was a mask of absolute, frozen stone. Behind him stepped Elena Vance, her suppressed Walther raised with professional, unshakeable precision, covering the two capos who instinctively reached for their waistbands.
"Don't move," Elena’s voice cut through the room like a razor blade.
The capos froze, their hands hovering inches from their hidden steel.
Dominic walked slowly toward the poker table, his boots clicking rhythmically against the floor. He didn't pull a weapon. He didn't yell. He simply walked up to the edge of the table, placed both palms on the green felt, and leaned forward until his face was inches from Vincent Moretti’s terrified eyes.
"V-Dominic," Vincent stammered, his face instantly draining of all color, the silver-haired consigliere shrinking back into his chair like a cornered rat. "I didn't... we didn't expect you back from Long Island. We thought..."
"I know what you thought, Vincent," Dominic whispered, his voice dangerously soft. "You thought I was busy chasing shadows. You thought you could bury Isabelle’s memory beneath a pile of fabricated lies and corporate restructuring."
Vincent swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing violently. He tried to force a shaky smile, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "Dominic, listen to me. Someone’s been filling your head with garbage. A rival family—the Russians—they're trying to split us apart from the inside. You know me. We built this together—"
Dominic’s fist slammed down onto the poker table with the force of a hydraulic press, splitting the mahogany wood beneath the felt and sending the remaining poker chips flying into the air like scattering teeth.
"You killed my wife," Dominic said, each word dropping like lead weights into the silence of the room.
Vincent’s breath caught. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The absolute, terrifying certainty in Dominic’s eyes told him the game was over. There were no more lies to spin, no more alibis to fabricate.
"I gave you everything," Dominic continued, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the floorboards. "I gave you loyalty. I gave you wealth. And you traded my wife's life for a seat at the head of a dying table."
Vincent lunged sideways, his hand frantically diving toward a snub-nosed revolver tucked beneath the poker table cushion.
He didn't even clear leather.
Before Vincent’s fingers could wrap around the grip, Dominic’s hand flashed out across the table, grabbing the older man by the silk tie and jerking him forward with such violent force that the heavy wooden chair flipped backward, crashing hard against the floor.
Dominic dragged Vincent across the shattered glass and spilled scotch, pinning him beneath his knee with crushing weight.
The capos watched in paralyzed terror, none of them daring to draw their weapons as Elena’s pistol locked firmly onto the center of their chests.
"Please, Dominic," Vincent choked out, blood pooling beneath his nose from the impact with the floor, his fingers clawing futilely at Dominic’s heavy coat. "Mercy... remember the old days..."
Dominic looked down at the man he had trusted like a brother for twenty years. There was no rage left in his heart—only an immense, freezing clarity.
"The old days died the morning Isabelle was killed," Dominic said quietly.
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He didn't pull a gun. He didn't need to.
With a cold, mechanical finality, Dominic’s hands found their mark.
