Chapter 3 - Blood on the Ledger
The study was located in the east wing, away from the bedrooms and the main family quarters. It was Dominic’s sanctum—a windowless room lined with reinforced steel plates behind the mahogany paneling, designed to withstand a grenade blast or a coordinated hit.
Vincent Vance sat in the leather armchair opposite Dominic’s desk. He looked immaculate, as always, wearing a charcoal bespoke suit with a silk pocket square that matched his silver-streaked hair. He was calmly sipping a glass of bourbon from Dominic’s private decanter, swirling the amber liquid against the crystal.
"Good evening, Dominic," Vince said without looking up. "Sal said you sounded urgent on the comms. Though, looking at your coat, I’d say you had a messy afternoon in Queens."
Dominic didn't sit down. He stood by the closed heavy oak door, his hand resting casually inside his coat pocket, his finger curled around the trigger of the Sig Sauer.
"The docks in Bayonne, Vince," Dominic said quietly.
Vince stopped swirling his glass. He didn't look panicked. He took a slow sip, set the crystal tumbler down on the marble coaster, and adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses.
"Ah," Vince murmured. "So you found the drop."
"You planted a bug in my daughters' bedroom. You used them. You threatened them." Dominic’s voice didn't rise; it dropped into a deadly, subterranean hum. "For fourteen months, they haven't spoken a word because you told them if they opened their mouths, I'd end up in a pine box."
Vince leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. The casual posture of a man who believed he held all the cards.
"They have vivid imaginations, Dominic. Children at that age trauma-bond easily. Isabelle’s death was tragic—truly tragic. A stray bullet meant for a rival union organizer in Garden City. Wrong place, wrong time. It’s a shame the police never found the shooter."
Dominic stepped forward, drawing the pistol and leveling it straight at the bridge of Vince’s nose.
"Isabelle wasn't killed by a stray bullet," Dominic said, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. "The police report said the shooter fired three rounds through the driver's side window from a silenced Browning Hi-Power. Professional grouping. Two inches apart. That's not a stray shot, Vince. That's an execution."
Vince’s smile didn't fade, but a thin sheen of sweat appeared on his upper lip.
"You're letting grief cloud your judgment, Dom. The commission wanted stability. You were expanding too fast into Manhattan. You were cutting out the old families. Someone had to send a message."
"And you helped them send it," Dominic whispered. "You gave them her schedule. You told them where she'd be at 8:45 on a Wednesday morning."
"I kept this organization afloat while you were drowning in domestic bliss!" Vince suddenly snapped, his polite veneer cracking to reveal a cold, venomous ambition. "You went soft, Dominic! You wanted to retire to a vineyard in Tuscany with Isabelle and play suburban dad! But guys like us don't get to walk away. The syndicate needs a leader who has his eyes on the ledger, not on ballet recitals!"
Dominic pulled the hammer back. The metallic click echoed off the steel-reinforced walls.
"Who ordered it?" Dominic demanded. "Give me a name, Vince. Give me a name right now, or I swear to God I'll empty this magazine into your legs one inch at a time."
Before Vince could speak, the study door clicked open.
Dominic didn't turn his head, keeping his eyes locked on the accountant. But the soft scent of jasmine and laundry detergent told him everything he needed to know.
Grace stood in the doorway. She wasn't holding a vacuum cleaner or a duster. In her right hand, she held a sleek, military-grade tactical knife with a seven-inch matte-black blade, and her gray eyes were fixed not on Vince, but on the security monitors glowing behind the desk.
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"You're too late, Dominic," Grace said, her voice entirely devoid of its previous domestic warmth. "The perimeter sensors just tripped. There are twelve armed men outside, and they aren't here to rescue you."
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