Chapter 2 - The Weight of an Empire
The wine cellar beneath the Falcone estate smelled of century-old oak, damp limestone, and fear.
Silvio Falcone sat tied to a heavy iron-backed chair in the center of the vaulted room. His velvet-collared tuxedo jacket was torn at the lapel, his hair disheveled, though he was still trying to muster the sneering authority of an elder statesman of the Five Families.
"He can't do this!" Silvio yelled at the two stone-faced guards flanking him. "I'm his father’s blood! I sat at the table with the old man when Dominic was still shitting in cloth diapers! Matteo, you treacherous bastard, tell him to let me out of these ropes before I strip your rank!"
Matteo didn't blink. He stood near the rack of 1945 Romanée-Conti, chewing on a toothpick, his eyes glued to the heavy wooden door at the top of the stone stairs.
The door clicked open.
Footsteps descended. Slow, measured, deliberate. The rhythmic tap of leather soles against granite.
Dominic entered. He had stripped off his tuxedo jacket, rolled his white linen shirt sleeves up to his forearms, and replaced his polished oxfords with heavy work boots. In his left hand, he carried a crystal glass filled with three fingers of amber scotch. In his right, he carried a heavy, chrome-plated tire iron.
He pulled up a wooden tasting stool and set it down three feet in front of his uncle. He sat down, took a slow sip of the scotch, and set the glass on a nearby barrel.
"Dominic," Silvio said, forcing a chuckle that rattled in his throat. "Look at this nonsense. What is this theatrical garbage? You shut down the biggest charity event of the decade. The senator’s wife left in tears. The press is going to have a field day with the Falcone name tomorrow morning. You lost your mind over a woman faint on the dance floor?"
Dominic balanced the tire iron across his knees. He didn't speak. He simply stared into his uncle’s eyes with a stillness that was far more terrifying than screaming.
"She’s an ornament, Dominic!" Silvio pressed, his voice rising in pitch as the silence stretched into a minute, then two. "You married the girl for her father’s political connections! The old senator gave us the zoning permits for the docks, and now he’s dead. Her family is broke! She brings nothing to this table anymore. You’re letting a pretty little doll run your mind while Alberto Rossi is moving his supply lines through our northern perimeter!"
Dominic tilted his head. "Tuesday night."
Silvio’s mouth snapped shut. His throat bobbed.
"Tuesday night," Dominic repeated, his voice silky, quiet, almost tender. "At eight-fifteen. Clara was in the private office of the downtown penthouse, signing the final logistics manifests for the gala. My security detail was rotated away from the private elevator for twenty minutes. A maintenance override was used. A security card registered to your branch of the family."
"It was a mistake," Silvio stammered, sweat beading on his upper lip, glistening in the amber light of the sconces. "A mix-up with the cleaning crew. I had nothing to do with—"
*Crack.*
The iron moved with blinding speed. The heavy metal slammed into Silvio’s right kneecap.
The older man shrieked, a high-pitched, porcine sound of pure agony that bounced off the stone arches. His body convulsed against the ropes, the chair legs scraping violently against the floor.
"She has three broken ribs, Silvio," Dominic said, his breathing completely even, not a hair out of place. "One of them was displaced by four millimeters. It was a fraction of an inch from puncturing her pericardium. She walked for three days with bone fragments grating against each other every time she drew breath."
Dominic leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, bringing his face inches from his uncle’s tear-streaked, contorted features.
"She put on a three-hundred-thousand-dollar emerald dress tonight. She put on makeup. She smiled at the governor. She took photographs with the press. And she danced a waltz with me, because she thought—in that brilliant, terrified, loyal mind of hers—that if she showed weakness, my enemies would think I was vulnerable."
"Dominic... please..." Silvio sobbed, clutching at his ruined leg as best he could while bound. "Rossi... Rossi has the docks! He said he’d back me! He said if you were gone, the old ways would come back! The drug trade, the protection rackets! You were making us soft with this corporate bullshit! You turned us into accountants!"
"I turned you into billionaires," Dominic corrected coldly. "I gave you pensions, legitimate holdings, clean money your grandchildren could spend without looking over their shoulders for the FBI. But you wanted to stay a common street thug."
Dominic stood up. He grabbed Silvio by the hair, yanking his head back until the cartilage in his neck popped.
"Who touched her?" Dominic whispered into his ear. "You didn't do it yourself. You’re too fat and too cowardly to raise a hand against a Falcone woman. Who did you send into my house?"
"Marco," Silvio gasped, urine spreading through his trousers, dark and steaming against the grey wool. "Marco Vane. And two of Rossi’s muscle. They were supposed to... they were just supposed to take her ledger! The blackmail files! She fought them, Dominic! She had a letter opener... she stabbed Marco in the shoulder... they lost their temper!"
"A letter opener," Dominic murmured, a strange, savage pride gleaming in his eyes for a split second before freezing back into ice. "My girl."
He let go of Silvio’s hair. Silvio’s head slumped forward, weeping, gasping for breath.
"Matteo."
"Yes, Boss."
"Where is Marco Vane?"
"He’s at the warehouse on Forty-Second Street. Waiting for Silvio’s call that the gala went according to plan."
Dominic picked up his scotch, finished the last amber drop, and set the empty glass back on the oak barrel.
"Take the iron," Dominic told Matteo, tossing the chrome tool to the underboss, who caught it cleanly. "Finish his other leg. Then leave him in the root cellar under the old farmhouse. If he’s still breathing on Sunday, we'll see if Rossi wants to buy back his meat."
"Dominic! No! You can’t do this to your own blood!" Silvio shrieked as Dominic walked toward the stone staircase. "Dominic! Have mercy!"
Dominic reached the top of the stairs, pushed open the heavy door, and stepped into the warm, carpeted corridor of the main house.
May you like
"I am having mercy, Silvio," Dominic murmured to the empty hallway as the door swung shut behind him, muffling the sudden, sickening sound of iron meeting bone once more. "I left your tongue in your head."
***
