No caretaker had survived more than three days with me after the accident—not because the

Chiến dịch 29

The service lift was cramped, smelling of damp lime and fifty years of accumulated dust, but the heavy iron chains groaned and held our weight without hesitation.

I sat in the chair, my knuckles white against the metal frame. Fay stood beside me, her shoulder practically brushing mine in the tight space. She held the iron gate shut with one hand, her face completely expressionless as the motorized pulley lowered us toward the ground floor.

"Why did you do that?" I asked, my voice low enough that it wouldn't carry through the elevator shaft.

"Do what?"

"You just made an enemy out of Carmine," I said. "He set that trap carefully. If I had to be carried down those stairs in front of Sal Leone, my organization would have split in half by midnight. You ruined his play."

Fay didn't look at me. She kept her eyes on the brick wall sliding past the iron mesh.

"I don't like bullies," she said simply. "My landlord has the same look in his eyes when he thinks a woman can't fight back. Carmine thought he was clever. He wasn't."

"He's dangerous, Fay. This isn't a diner."

"Neither is my apartment building," she shot back. "The elevator is stopping. Put your game face on, Mr. Corso. The lions are in the living room."

The lift settled with a heavy, metallic thud.

I pushed the iron gate open and wheeled through the service alcove into my private study. The door connecting the study to the main parlor was cracked open. Through the gap, I could hear the murmur of voices, the clinking of crystal, and the distinct, nasal laughter of Sal Leone.

"Dominic Corso running a shipping empire from a bedpan," Sal was saying to someone. "It’s tragic, really. Ten years ago, the man took three boroughs off the Maroni family with six guys and a couple of baseball bats. Now he can’t even walk to the bathroom to piss."

I didn't hesitate. I shoved the double doors open with both hands.

The heavy mahogany doors slammed against the parlor walls with a sound like gunshot.

The room froze.

Sal Leone was sitting in my father’s leather armchair, a glass of twenty-year-old scotch in his hand. Four of his capos were lounging near the marble fireplace, coats open, looking comfortable. Carmine and his two men stood by the archway, looking sour and caught off guard.

Sal’s smile died on his face.

He had expected to see me brought down the stairs in a blanket, or to wait until Carmine summoned him up to my bedroom like a doctor visiting a dying patient. Instead, I was sitting upright in the center of the room, clean-shaven, wearing a tailored charcoal suit jacket, my gaze locked directly onto his throat.

Fay walked in behind me, quiet as a shadow, and positioned herself against the side table near the wet bar. She didn't look scared. She looked bored.

"Sal," I said, rolling forward until the front casters of my chair stopped exactly two feet from his polished Italian loafers. "You're sitting in my chair."

Sal swallowed, his eyes darting to Carmine, who was staring resolutely at the floor.

"Dominic," Sal said, scrambling up from the armchair with an awkward, hurried movement that spilled an ounce of scotch onto his cuff. "We... uh, we heard there were some issues at the docks. We thought maybe you were incapacitated."

"Who told you that?" I asked, my voice deadly soft.

Sal’s eyes flicked toward Carmine again, just for a microsecond.

"Just street talk," Sal stammered. "You know how rumors are. The port authority was dragging their feet, and we have perishable cargo coming in tomorrow. We wanted to make sure things were running smooth."

"The port authority works for me," I said, leaning forward. "The north docks belong to the Corso family. If another one of your cars comes through my front gates without an invitation, I won't send them back to Brooklyn. I'll send them to the bottom of the Delaware River with your name painted on the roof."

Sal set his glass down on the side table with a trembling hand.

"Understood, Dominic. We were just... checking in. Respectful like."

"Get out of my house."

Sal didn't argue. He signaled his men with a jerk of his chin. The four capos moved toward the foyer like whipped dogs, their boots clicking rapidly on the marble. Sal lingered for half a second, his eyes drifting down to my legs before he caught my stare and practically bolted toward the front door.

The heavy front door slammed shut. The engine of their Lincoln roared outside and faded down the long driveway.

The parlor was dead silent again.

Carmine took a step forward, his jaw tight. "Dominic, I swear to God, the gate guard—"

"Shut up," I said.

Carmine stopped.

"You and I will talk tonight," I told him, not bothering to look at him. "Take Rocco and Johnny and get down to Pier 14. If there is a single crate out of place on the Turkish shipment, I’m holding you personally responsible. Clear out."

Carmine stood there for three seconds, his chest heaving, his fingers twitching near his belt. But the authority of ten years of bloodshed was still thick in the room. He nodded once, stiffly, and marched toward the exit with his soldiers trailing behind him.

When the front door clicked shut for the second time, the adrenaline that had been keeping my spine erect suddenly vanished.

A wave of exhaustion washed over me so violently that I had to grab the armrests of my chair to keep from slumping forward. My lower back flared with agonizing, burning pain. My right leg began to twitch uncontrollably, the foot drumming against the aluminum footplate.

"Damn it," I hissed through clenched teeth, squeezing my eyes shut.

A pair of warm, firm hands clamped onto my knee.

Fay was on her knees again, right between my feet. She didn't say a word. She used her body weight to lean against my quadricep, her thumbs digging into the pressure point just beneath the pelvic bone, exactly where the severed signals were misfiring.

"Breathe, Mr. Corso," she commanded softly. "Deep breath. In through your nose."

I sucked in a lungful of air, my chest trembling.

"You handled them well," she said, her voice steady, keeping her rhythm even as my leg bucked against her palms. "They were terrified of you."

"They're terrified of what I was," I muttered, sweat dripping down the side of my neck. "Not what I am."

"Power isn't in your legs," Fay said, pressing deeper into the muscle. The spasm began to yield, the violent shaking reducing to a dull, rhythmic tremor. "Power is in whether they think you'll pull the trigger. And right now, Carmine looks like he thinks you'll bury him in the cellar."

I opened my eyes and looked down at her.

Her face was inches from mine. She was focused entirely on my leg, her brow furrowed in concentration. She smelled of cheap lavender soap and rain.

"Why are you helping me, Fay?" I asked. "Really. You could have walked out that front door while Sal was here. Nobody would have stopped you."

She paused, her hands still resting on my knee. She looked up, her grey eyes meeting mine without a shred of deception.

"Because when my brother was dying, there were fifty doctors in this city who could have helped him if we had money. None of them did. They just let him suffer because we were poor."

She stood up slowly, dusting off her jeans.

"You're an arrogant, violent man, Dominic Corso. But you're fighting for your life against men who are waiting for you to die so they can steal your shoes. I know what that feels like. And I'm not leaving until you're back on your feet—or until Carmine puts a bullet in both of us."