Chapter 2 - THE SNAKES AT THE TABLE
By eight o'clock that evening, the rain had turned into a steady, freezing drizzle. The mansion felt colder than usual, as if the walls themselves knew that blood was about to be spilled on the velvet carpets.
In the formal dining room, beneath a grand crystal chandelier that threw sharp, glinting reflections across the mahogany table, six men sat in dark suits. These were the pillars of the Romano family—the men who controlled the docks, the unions, the concrete, and the enforcement.
At the head of the table sat Frankie "The Butcher" Vane, my underboss and oldest friend. To his right sat Matty "Silver-Eye" Russo, my primary organizer for Eastern European trade. Across from them sat Paulie, Leo, Sal, and young Marco.
I stood at the sideboard, pouring myself a heavy glass of twenty-year-old scotch. The amber liquid shook slightly against the crystal—not from fear, but from an overwhelming, suffocating rage that threatened to snap my control.
"Dominic," Frankie said, leaning back in his chair and lighting a thick cigar. "You called us out here in the middle of a storm. The commission meeting in Manhattan is tomorrow morning. What's so urgent?"
I picked up my glass, swirled the ice, and walked slowly toward the head of the table.
"Fourteen months ago," I began, my voice smooth as silk, "my wife was shot three times in the chest in broad daylight outside Garden City Elementary."
The room went dead silent. The men exchanged cautious glances. We didn't talk about Isabelle. Not anymore. Not since I had killed four Valetti lieutenants in cold blood during the first week of mourning, believing the rival syndicate was responsible.
"Dominic, brother," Matty Russo said, leaning forward, resting his heavy forearms on the polished mahogany. "We buried those bastards. The Valettis paid for what they did. You took their ports. You took their territory."
My eyes dragged down to Matty’s right hand.
He was wearing a heavy silver ring. A square black onyx stone caught the light of the chandelier.
I felt a violent pulse echo behind my eyes, but I didn't reach for my gun. Not yet. A boss doesn't act on the word of a frightened five-year-old alone; a boss builds a case until the trap snaps shut so tight the rat can't even squeak.
"Did they pay, Matty?" I asked softly, taking a sip of scotch. "Because lately, I’ve been wondering how a Valetti hit squad knew exactly which route Isabelle’s driver took that morning. The route was changed thirty minutes before she left the driveway. Only eight people in the world had that schedule."
Frankie’s eyes narrowed through the blue cigar smoke. "What are you implying, Boss?"
"I’m implying that the man who killed my wife didn't come from Brooklyn," I said, setting my glass down with a heavy clack that made young Marco flinch. "He sat at this table. He ate my bread. He hugged my daughters at the wake."
Matty’s fingers twitched on his glass. "Dominic, you’re tired. You’ve been living in this house like a hermit with those three mute kids—"
In a split second, my hand moved. I grabbed Matty by his silk tie, slammed his face hard onto the mahogany table, and drove a heavy silver dinner fork straight through the meat of his right hand, pinning his palm—and the black onyx ring—flat against the wood.
Matty shrieked in agony, his knees buckling as blood pooling instantly around the silver tines.
The other five men scrambled to their feet, chairs scraping violently against the floor, hands reaching inside their leather jackets.
"NO ONE MOVES!" Frankie roared, pulling his own snub-nosed revolver and pointing it straight at Paulie’s head. "SIT DOWN! ALL OF YOU!"
Matty was panting, tears of pain leaking from his eyes as he stared at me, his pinned hand quivering. "Dominic... you’re insane! I’ve been loyal to you for fifteen years!"
I leaned down until my nose was an inch from his ear. "My daughter spoke today, Matty," I whispered, every word dripping with lethal promises. "She remembered your ring. She remembered the hand that pulled the trigger."
Matty went pale—whiter than the linen napkins on the table. "No... no, Dominic, listen to me—it wasn't just me! I was ordered! They threatened my family!"
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"Who?" I asked softly.
Before Matty could open his mouth, a muffled explosion rocked the east side of the estate. The heavy glass windows of the dining room shattered inward in a shower of sharp crystal, and the high-pitched wail of the mansion’s perimeter alarms began to scream into the night.
