Chapter 2 - The Cracks in the Concrete
Luca didn't ask questions. That was why he had survived thirty-five years as my father’s consigliere and why he was the only man alive allowed to keep a key to my private vault.
"Give me three hours on the girl," Luca said over the encrypted line, his voice dry as parchment. "As for Carmine... you don't need municipal records for that, Dominic. Valenti met him at the diner behind the fish market yesterday afternoon. They sat in the back booth for an hour."
A knot formed in my stomach, cold and familiar. "Valenti is supposed to report to me on Tuesdays."
"Valenti reports to whoever can walk down the pier and look him in the eye," Luca said with brutal honesty. "He thinks you're rotting in that bedroom, kid. The streets don't respect ghosts. You know that better than anyone."
"Find out about the girl," I repeated, and hung up before the old man could offer any sympathy I didn't want.
I put the phone back in the secret drawer, locked it, and turned back to the window. Outside, the gray Pennsylvania clouds hung low over the manicured lawns of my estate. The perimeter wall was ten feet of stone topped with discreet razor wire and high-resolution cameras, but walls only kept out enemies who didn't already have keys to the front gate.
At exactly twelve o'clock, the bedroom door swung open.
Fay walked in carrying a wooden tray. A bowl of steaming vegetable soup sat in the middle, flanked by two thick slices of sourdough bread and a glass of water. She set it on the small dining table near the corner, pulled out the wooden chair opposite it, and looked at me.
"Are you going to wheel over here, or do I have to bring it to your desk?" she asked.
"I have business to attend to," I said without looking up from the documents I was pretending to read.
"Your business can wait twenty minutes," Fay replied, wiping her hands on a dry towel. "The soup won't stay warm. And Mrs. Gable said if you skip another meal, your blood sugar drops and the spasms get worse. I don't feel like wrestling your legs again today; my shoulders still hurt."
I stared at her. "You have an unbelievable mouth on you, Miss Willis."
"Most people who are starving do," she said evenly. "It comes from having nothing to lose. Now are you coming over, or should I leave it?"
I grabbed the push rims of my wheels, spun the chair around, and rolled across the Persian rug. The movement was smooth, but every rotation of the wheels felt like an insult to my pride. I parked myself at the table, deliberately leaving three feet between my chair and the edge.
"Eat," she said, leaning against the credenza with her arms crossed over her chest.
"I don't like people watching me eat," I said.
"Then close your eyes."
I picked up the spoon. The soup was hot, savory, and thick with root vegetables. I hadn't realized until the first swallow how empty my stomach actually was. I finished half the bowl before I set the spoon down and leaned back, studying her.
She had dark circles under her eyes, deep purple bruises of exhaustion that makeup couldn't hide. Her wrists were thin, but the muscles in her forearms were ropey and defined—the kind of strength that came from carrying laundry baskets, moving furniture, and scrubbing floors for twelve hours a day.
"How old was your brother?" I asked.
The question caught her off guard. Her arms uncrossed slightly, her shoulders tightening. "Fourteen."
"And your father?"
"Died in the shipyards when I was ten," she said, her voice dropping into that neutral, defensive tone she used like armor. "A crane cable snapped on Pier 14. Company settled for five thousand dollars and a handshake. My mother drank the money in six months and died two years later."
Pier 14.
My father had owned Pier 14 thirty years ago. In those days, a snapped cable was written off as an act of God, and five thousand dollars was considered generous by the legal team.
"You knew who I was before you walked in here," I said. It wasn't a question.
Fay looked me dead in the eye. "I knew your family's name was on the legal papers that settled my father's death. I knew everyone in South Philly crosses the street when a black Cadillac drives past. And I knew that when the agency posted a private caretaking gig paying five hundred dollars a week in cash with no background check required, the only person desperate enough to take it would be someone who had nothing left to lose."
"You came here for revenge?" I asked, a dangerous edge creeping into my voice.
Fay let out a short, humorless laugh that cut through the tension like a razor.
"Revenge doesn't pay my landlord, Mr. Corso. Revenge doesn't fix the bald tires on my Honda. You people think everyone’s life revolves around your little wars. I don't give a damn about what your father did thirty years ago. I care about staying warm in November."
She walked forward, took the empty bowl from the tray, and stacked it neatly on the plate.
"If I wanted you dead," she added, her eyes locking onto mine with chilling clarity, "I wouldn't have grabbed your leg this morning. I would have let you fall out of that chair and choke on your own tongue while the guards were having their cigarettes outside."
She turned toward the door with the tray.
Before she could turn the handle, the heavy oak doors rattled. A loud, sharp knock echoed into the room, followed immediately by the sound of the brass latch turning.
Carmine stepped inside. He had two men with him this time—Rocco and Johnny, two mid-level soldiers who usually worked the warehouse districts. They weren't wearing their street clothes; they were wearing dark tactical jackets, and Johnny had a gym bag slung over his shoulder.
"We have a problem downstairs, Dominic," Carmine said. His voice was too loud, too theatrical.
"What kind of problem?" I asked, keeping my hands resting flat on the table.
"A couple of guys from the Leone family," Carmine said, stepping further into the room. Rocco and Johnny stayed near the wall, cutting off the clear path between Fay and the exit. "They drove two cars onto the front driveway. Said they heard through the docks that you weren't handling shipments personally anymore. They want to inspect the north storage bay."
"And you let them past the front gate?" I asked, feeling the blood rush hot behind my ears.
"The gate was open, Boss," Carmine said with an insolent shrug. "Guard must’ve missed the intercom. Sal Leone himself is in the parlor downstairs. He asked if you could make it down the stairs, or if he needed to come up here and talk to you in bed."
It was a test. A blatant, calculated humiliation designed to break my authority in front of my own soldiers.
Fay was standing two feet from Carmine. She didn't look at Carmine's face. Her eyes were fixed on Johnny's gym bag, which had the distinct, heavy bulge of automatic weapons inside.
"Tell Sal to wait in the parlor," I said, my voice steady despite the rage threatening to rip through my chest. "I'll be down in ten minutes."
"The elevator's out, Dominic," Carmine said, a faint, mocking smile touching the corners of his mouth. "Hydraulic line blew about an hour ago. Maintenance won't be here until tomorrow."
The room went dead silent.
The mansion had two stories. The master suite was on the second floor. Without the elevator, getting down to the parlor meant being carried down thirty curved marble steps like an invalid—or having Sal Leone walk into my bedroom and look down at me in my chair.
Either way, Dominic Corso was finished.
Carmine knew it. Rocco knew it. And across the room, Fay Willis was watching all of it unfold.
"Well?" Carmine asked, crossing his arms. "Should I tell Sal to come up?"
Before I could answer, Fay stepped directly into Carmine's path.
"The elevator isn't broken," she said loudly, her voice cutting through the men's tension like a whip. "I used the service lift behind the kitchen three minutes ago to bring up the soup."
Carmine turned his head slowly, staring down at her with pure contempt. "Shut your mouth, girl. The service lift hasn't run in five years."
"It runs fine if you reset the breaker behind the pantry," Fay said, stepping closer to Carmine until she was inches from his chest. "Which I did this morning because I wasn't carrying fifty pounds of laundry up two flights of stairs for minimum wage."
She looked back at me, her face completely calm, her eyes sharp as flint.
"The lift is right behind your wardrobe, Mr. Corso. It opens directly into the private study next to the parlor. Shall I hold the door for you?"
Carmine’s jaw hardened, a vein bulging along his neck. For a split second, I saw murder flash in his eyes.
I didn't give him the chance to speak.
May you like
"Move, Carmine," I commanded, spinning my wheels toward the hidden corridor behind my bedroom. "And if Sal Leone touches anything in my parlor before I get there, break his fingers."
***
