Chapter 2 - Whispers in the Syndicate
The private clinic in Queens did not look like a hospital. From the outside, it was a nondescript brick warehouse tucked between an auto-body shop and a scrap metal yard, surrounded by a high chain-link fence topped with razor wire. But inside, behind the steel security doors, it was a state-of-the-art medical facility equipped with the finest technology money could buy—and entirely unbothered by the city’s health inspectors or police reports.
Carmen Martinez lay in a sterile, white room on the third floor, an oxygen mask over her face, her thin arm connected to three different IV drips. The rattling in her chest had eased, her skin no longer holding that grey, paper-thin quality of the dying.
In the hallway outside, Vincent stood looking through the reinforced glass window, his hands clasped behind his back.
Beside him, Dr. Evans was reviewing a digital chart. "We caught it just in time, Don Vincent. Another two weeks without treatment, and her lungs would have collapsed. It's a severe strain of drug-resistant TB. The cocktail of antibiotics she needs costs roughly twelve thousand dollars a cycle. She’ll need six cycles."
"Give her twelve," Vincent said. "I want her fully recovered. Not patched up."
"And the child?" Evans asked.
"She’s at the estate," Vincent said. "In the guest wing."
Evans stopped scrolling, his eyes widening slightly. "The guest wing? Boss, with all due respect, that house is a fortress, but it’s also a target. If the other families realize you’ve brought a civilian child into your home—"
"They won't realize anything unless someone tells them," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. "And the only people who know are in this hallway."
"Of course, Boss," Evans said quickly, his face flushing. "I just... I worry about the optics."
Vincent didn't answer. He turned and walked down the long, sterile corridor, his leather shoes echoing against the linoleum.
He didn't return to his mansion immediately. Instead, he drove his heavy armored sedan to The Raven, a private social club in Little Italy that served as the operational headquarters of the Torino family. The air inside the club was thick with the scent of espresso, expensive cigars, and old leather.
As Vincent entered, the ambient noise of the room died instantly. Men in dark suits stood up from their tables, bowing their heads in silent respect as the Don walked past.
Vincent headed straight for the private room at the back, where his capos were waiting for the weekly briefing.
Sitting at the long mahogany table was Dino Valenti.
Dino was thirty-eight, handsome in a slick, greasy sort of way, with a diamond-encrusted watch that caught the light every time he moved his hands. He was ambitious, ruthless, and entirely too confident in his own intelligence. He had been quietly expanding his crew’s territory in Brooklyn, taking over the local drug distribution lines that Vincent had strictly prohibited.
"Vincent," Dino said, a greasy smile spreading across his face as he gestured to the empty chair at the head of the table. "We were starting to think you weren't going to show. Heard you had some... domestic issues to attend to."
The room went cold.
The other four capos at the table—older men who had served Vincent’s father—kept their eyes fixed on their folders, their bodies tense. They knew Dino was playing a dangerous game.
Vincent didn't sit down. He stood at the head of the table, his hands resting on the back of the heavy leather chair. "My schedule is my own, Dino. If you have a question about my time, you can ask it."
Dino chuckled, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. "No question, Boss. Just... people talk, you know? The streets are small. Word gets around that the legendary Don Torino is spending his nights playing doctor to the help. They say you’re spending syndicate funds to cure some illegal’s cough."
The silence in the room was absolute. A man could have heard a pin drop on the thick oriental rug.
Vincent didn't flinch. He didn't look angry. He simply reached into his pocket, pulled out a gold pocket watch, and clicked it open. "It is exactly 3:15 PM, Dino."
Dino’s smile faltered slightly. "Yeah? So?"
"At 3:10 PM, my men finished loading three tons of your Brooklyn heroin shipment into a garbage compactor at the docks," Vincent said, his voice perfectly conversational. "By now, it is likely being crushed into fertilizer."
Dino slammed his hands onto the table, his chair screeching against the floor as he stood up. "You did what? That shipment was worth four million dollars! The Moretti family was backing that deal!"
"I told you six months ago, Dino," Vincent said, his eyes locking onto the younger man’s with the cold, unyielding weight of an iron vault. "No drugs in Torino territory. You thought because you were making a quiet side-deal with the Morettis that I wouldn't notice. You thought because I was 'distracted' by my own house, you could steal from my table."
"You can't do this, Vincent!" Dino yelled, his hand moving instinctively toward his jacket.
Before his fingers could even touch his lapel, the muzzle of Marco’s gun was pressed firmly against the soft flesh beneath Dino’s jaw. The sound of the hammer cocking back was loud in the small room.
Dino froze, his breath hitching in his throat.
"I can do whatever I want, Dino," Vincent said, leaning over the table until his face was inches from the younger man’s. "Because I built this family. Your father was a numbers runner who died in a ditch because he didn't know when to keep his mouth shut. I gave you his seat because I thought you had his loyalty. I see I was mistaken."
He reached out, his hand wrapping around Dino’s expensive diamond watch, and tore it off his wrist with a single, violent jerk that broke the metal clasp. He tossed the watch onto the table.
"You have twenty-four hours to pay back the four million you owed the Morettis," Vincent said. "Out of your own pocket. If the money isn't in the family accounts by tomorrow afternoon, I will give Marco permission to finish pulling that trigger. Now, get out of my sight."
May you like
Dino glared at him, his face purple with rage, but the cold steel of Marco’s gun didn't waver. He slowly backed away from the table, smoothed his jacket, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Vincent looked at the remaining capos. "The meeting is adjourned. Go back to your crews. Tell them that if anyone has any more questions about my charity work, they can come ask me themselves."
