Chapter 4 - Blood and Blueprints
The basement archive room was cold, smelling of old leather, damp concrete, and gun oil.
Viktor Vance sat across a heavy oak table under the glare of a single overhead lamp. His hands were cuffed to a steel bolt anchored deep into the foundation. Across from him sat Marcus Vance, his older brother, whose face was a mask of sheer, unmitigated horror.
“You’re out of your mind, Dominic,” Marcus snarled, standing half-crouched over the table. “Viktor has been auditing our books for three years! He has nothing to do with this!”
The heavy iron door swung open.
Dominic Moretti walked in. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket anymore; his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and faint scars from a life carved out of concrete and lead.
He didn't look at Marcus. He fixed his cold, obsidian stare entirely on Viktor.
Viktor tried to maintain a smirk, though his left eye twitched nervously against his will. “Come on, Dom—excuse me, Mr. Moretti. This is ridiculous. Marcus, tell him. I was in the west wing filing inventory reports during the party.”
“Were you?” Dominic asked softly. He reached into his coat pocket and tossed a small, heavy object onto the center of the wooden table.
It clattered against the wood and rolled to a stop.
A tiny, vintage gold pocket watch with a cracked crystal face.
Viktor’s smirk vanished instantly. The color drained from his face until his skin matched the gray concrete walls.
“Recognize it, Viktor?” Dominic asked, pulling a heavy wooden chair out and sitting down slowly, resting his forearms on his knees. “A little girl with dark curls noticed it. She noticed the ticking. And she noticed the scar across your right thumb where you caught it in a winch down at the Jersey docks three summers ago.”
Marcus slowly turned his head to look at his brother, his voice cracking. “Viktor… tell me that’s not yours.”
“Shut up, Marcus!” Viktor snapped, panic finally breaking through his forced composure. He glared at Dominic. “You think you’re untouchable, Moretti! You sit in your mansion and play king while the old families in Brooklyn and Chicago are carving up your shipping lanes behind your back! I didn't want to kill the kid—I just wanted to send a message! A warning that your fortress isn't as secure as you think!”
The silence in the room was absolute.
Marcus let out a ragged breath, his hands shaking. Without a word, he unholstered his sidearm with his right hand, pressed the cold barrel directly against Viktor’s forehead, and cocked the hammer.
“Marcus,” Dominic said, his voice stopping the older man cold.
Marcus looked down at his boss, tears welling in his hardened eyes. “He threatened your son, boss. He threatened my blood and your house. Let me do it.”
“Not here,” Dominic said, standing up with cold, deliberate slowness. “Too messy. Take him down to the lower warehouse off the Hudson. Make sure he understands the difference between sending a message and signing his own death warrant.”
As Marcus hauled his struggling, screaming brother out of the room by his collar, Dominic stood alone under the single swinging lightbulb, his mind racing.
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Viktor had spoken of the old families in Brooklyn and Chicago carving up his lanes. That meant Viktor wasn't acting alone. There was a buyer. Someone high up in the syndicate syndicate was backing him.
And the war for New York had just officially begun.
