If you breathe a word, Mr. Moretti, we both die before we hit the floor.
Marco’s confession echoed in the silent garage, the raw anguish in his voice confirming the terror he had been under. My initial rage at him evaporated, replaced by a searing hatred for Salvatore. To use a child, a girl innocent of this life, to force such a betrayal—it was a line I never thought even Salvatore would cross.
“Go,” I told Marco, my voice gruff. “Get out of here. Go to Gianna. Don’t let him touch her.”
Marco nodded, unable to speak, and stumbled back to his car. I watched him drive away, the fear in his eyes a stark image burned into my mind.
I still needed to find a way to fight back. My old network was gone, my money frozen, but surely, someone on the inside would see through Salvatore’s lie. Someone would remember my loyalty, my decades of service.
Silvio Rossi. My mind fixed on him. Silvio was no saint, but I had personally promoted him twelve years ago, when he was just a street soldier with a knack for numbers. I’d vouched for him, given him his own territory. He owed me.
I called him from Elena’s burner phone. It rang a long time, then a terse voice answered. “Yeah?”
“Silvio, it’s Vince. I need to talk.”
A pause. “Vince. I heard the rumors.” His voice was cold, flat.
“Rumors, Silvio? You believe I stole from the pension fund?” I challenged, my voice rising.
“Meet me,” he said, ignoring my question. “The alley behind Sal’s Deli on Court Street. Twenty minutes. Alone.”
I looked at Elena. “Silvio wants to talk. He says alone.”
“It’s a trap, Vince,” she warned.
“Maybe. But he’s the last chance. If Silvio won’t stand with me, no one will.” I left the pistol with Elena. I walked into that alley unarmed, determined to face whatever was coming.
The alley was narrow, smelling of stale grease and damp concrete. Three figures stood silhouetted at the far end. Silvio, flanked by two armed men. They weren’t his usual crew. These men were Salvatore’s muscle.
“Silvio,” I said, stopping a few feet from them. “You brought company.”
Silvio’s face was grim, his eyes avoiding mine. “Vince. You shouldn’t be here.”
“I need your help,” I pressed. “Salvatore framed me. He’s trying to take my estate to cover his debts. He even threatened Marco’s sister to get him to come after me.”
Silvio flinched at the mention of Marco, a flicker of something, but it vanished quickly. He clenched his jaw. “Vince, I can’t. I owe Salvatore.”
“Owe him what?” I scoffed. “More than you owe me? I pulled you out of the gutter, Silvio.”
He finally met my gaze, and his eyes were filled with a mixture of shame and desperation. “He wiped it out, Vince. My gambling debt. All of it.”
My stomach dropped. “What debt?”
“The sports betting,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “$600,000. I was completely buried. He offered to clear it all. In exchange for enforcing the syndicate’s boycott of you. For making sure your calls went unanswered. For making sure no one helped you.”
Six hundred thousand dollars. Silvio’s weakness, his secret addiction, had been leveraged against me. Salvatore hadn’t just framed me for embezzlement; he had systematically bought off my most trusted men, exploiting their personal vulnerabilities.
“You took his money, Silvio?” I asked, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. “For my head?”
“He told me you were dead already, Vince. That Marco had already handled it. He said he was just tying up loose ends.” Silvio shifted uncomfortably, his men tightening their grip on their weapons. “Leave, Vince. Just go. Get out of New York. You’re a dead man walking.”
His words, meant as a warning, sealed my isolation. My oldest ally, bought and paid for. The last thread of my old life had just snapped.
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