Chapter 4 - The Morning After the Funeral
The dawn did not break over Harbor City; it simply dissolved the night into a thick, soup-like fog that rolled off the Atlantic and choked the cliffs of the Heights.
By six o’clock in the morning, the kitchen of the Russo brownstone smelled of something it hadn't smelled of in decades: yeast, browned butter, and roasted vanilla beans.
Nora stood at the massive industrial Viking range, her hair tied back in a fresh, tight bun she’d secured with a rubber band she found in a utility drawer. She wore one of Dominic’s oversized white dress shirts as a makeshift apron, the sleeves rolled up past her elbows. Her hands were buried in a massive wooden bowl, kneading a batch of brioche dough with a rhythmic, violent energy that was clearly her version of therapy.
Leo sat at the marble island, a glass of whole milk in front of him, happily coloring on the back of a legal pad Tony Bell had provided.
The kitchen door swung open with a soft click, and Dominic rolled in. He had changed into a dark gray cashmere sweater and charcoal trousers. He looked rested, though the sharp, predator-like intensity in his eyes hadn't faded.
He stopped his chair near the island, watching her work. The movement of her shoulders was strong, fluent. She didn't look like a woman who had been shot at twelve hours ago. She looked like a woman who had a job to do.
"Marcus went to the bakery," Dominic said without preamble.
Nora didn't stop kneading. Thump. Fold. Push. "And?"
"The place was locked up. But there was a black sedan parked across the street with two guys inside who definitely weren't looking for a croissant," Dominic said, his voice flat. "Marcus didn't try to go inside. It was too hot."
Nora’s hands froze in the dough. She closed her eyes, her forehead pressing against the cool rim of the wooden bowl. A small, shaky breath escaped her lips. "My boss, Mr. Henderson... he's going to fire me. He's going to think I just bailed on the morning shift."
"Mr. Henderson has bigger problems," Dominic said. He reached into his pocket and tossed a heavy, thick manila envelope onto the marble island. It landed with a solid, fleshy thud.
Nora looked at it. Through the open flap, she could see thick bands of green currency. Hundred-dollar bills. Hundreds of them.
"What is that?" she asked, her voice turning guarded.
"Ten thousand dollars," Dominic said. "Consider it an advance on your delivery fee. And a retainer."
"A retainer for what? I'm a baker, Russo. I don't wash money, and I don't carry guns."
"A retainer for your presence," Dominic said, his dark eyes fixed on hers. "Right now, the rumor on the street is that Dominic Russo is so pathetic he’s hiding behind a civilian woman. Carmine’s people are telling everyone that the Russo family ended last night in the Alexandria Room."
He leaned forward, his massive forearms resting on the guards of his wheels. "But if that civilian woman is living in my house, cooking my food, and looking at my enemies like they’re an inconvenience... it changes the narrative. It means I don't care about Carmine’s threats. It means I'm still running the house."
Nora pulled her hands out of the dough, wiping them on a kitchen towel. She looked at the money, then at her son, who was completely absorbed in drawing a yellow truck on the legal pad.
"You're using me as a prop," she said, her voice dropping into a dangerous whisper.
"I'm using every tool I have to keep us alive, Nora," Dominic said honestly. "Including my reputation. If Carmine thinks I'm terrified, he hits this house with fifty men by Friday. If he thinks I'm sitting up here, eating fresh brioche and planning my next move, he hesitates. He waits to see what my play is. And hesitation is the only thing that buys me time to get my legs back."
"Your legs?" Nora looked down at his lap. "The doctor said—"
"I don't mean the muscles, Nora," Dominic interrupted, his voice turning ice-cold. "I mean my men. The docks. The city."
The phone in Dominic’s lap buzzed again. This time, he answered it. He pressed the button and held it to his ear, his face turning into a mask of pure steel.
"Silvio," Dominic said.
Nora held her breath, watching his expression.
For nearly two minutes, Dominic didn't say a word. He just listened, his dark eyes tracking the steam rising from the coffee pot on the counter. The only sign of tension was the way his knuckles turned white where he gripped the armrest of his wheelchair.
"I see," Dominic said finally. "And the warehouse at Pier 4?"
A pause.
"Understood. Stay out of the city until I call you from the landline. Don't use the satellite again."
He clicked the phone off and tossed it onto the table. He looked at the window, where the fog was turning into a dark, heavy downpour.
"Silvio signed with Carmine?" Nora asked softly, already knowing the answer from the look on his face.
"Silvio is dead," Dominic corrected, his voice entirely devoid of vibration. "Carmine’s people met his ship at the mouth of the bay three hours ago. They hung him from the crane at Pier 4."
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Nora gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Leo looked up from his coloring, his small brow furrowing at his mother’s reaction.
Dominic didn't flinch. He just looked at the wooden bowl of dough. "Your brioche needs to rise, Nora. Because by tomorrow, this city is going to start burning."
