Chapter 10 - The Reckoning
No one moved.
The silence stretched for ten seconds, fifteen, twenty, thick with the realization of what lay on the table.
Victor’s hands remained flat against the wood. His right index finger did not tap. He knew every man in the room was calculating the odds.
“Dante,” Victor began, his voice dry and raspy. “I don't know what games you're playing, but this is an insult to the commission. We came here to negotiate business, not to look at your garbage.”
Dante did not look at Victor. He looked at Duca.
“At two o’clock this morning,” Dante said, “two men entered my garden through the coal chute. They carried forty pounds of industrial accelerant. Their instructions were to incinerate my house while my staff slept. They were carrying the key to Victor’s personal garage on 12th Street.”
Duca turned his heavy, ancient head toward Victor. “Is this true, Romano?”
“He’s paranoid!” Victor snapped, rising to his feet. “He’s losing his grip, just like his uncle did before they put him in the sanitarium! You’re going to take the word of a boy who wears a butchered tie to a Five Families summit?”
Dante picked up the plastic scissors. He opened and closed them once; the dull blue plastic blades clicked softly.
“I am not taking my own word, Victor,” Dante said. “I am taking the word of the girl who cut this bug from my neck before you could listen to our plans. The girl who drew your car, your license plate, your face, and the exact hour you handed three thousand dollars to the arsonists in the alley behind Falcone’s.”
Dante slid a single sheet of paper down the center of the table.
It was Lily’s drawing of Victor’s face—not a caricature, but an unmistakable likeness: the hooked nose, the silver ring, the narrow eyes, and the small birthmark beneath his right ear, drawn with terrifying, photographic clarity.
Duca leaned forward, picked up the paper, and looked at it. Then he looked at Victor.
“Sit down, Victor,” Duca said softly.
“Duca, listen to me—”
“Sit down,” Duca repeated, his voice carrying the finality of a stone dropping into a well.
Victor reached for his coat.
He never cleared the leather. Marco Bellini entered through the service door behind the pantry, moving without sound. Two quick, suppressed cracks shattered the room’s air.
Victor Romano slumped forward across the table, his arms outstretched, his forehead coming to rest three inches from the severed silk tie he had paid five thousand dollars to alter.
Dante did not blink. He stood up, adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, and looked around the table at the remaining six men.
“Our meeting will proceed,” Dante said, “at two o’clock this afternoon at the St. Regis. We will discuss the new distribution routes without interference. Marco will see to the cleanup.”
May you like
He turned and walked toward the exit, leaving the dolphin scissors resting on the mahogany wood like a seal of state.
***
