Chapter 4 - The Order at Midnight
By midnight, the storm outside had broken over Long Island. Rain lashed against the arched floor-to-ceiling windows of Vincent’s study.
Charlotte had been given a heavy dose of liquid codeine. She lay propped up on the emerald chesterfield, a cashmere blanket draped over her body up to her chin, her newly cast left arm resting on a velvet pillow. Her eyes were heavy, fighting off the encroaching sleep, watching the shadows shift across the room.
The study door opened, and three men filed in.
Marco, the capo from the dinner table; Luca, Vincent’s personal enforcer; and Dante, his intelligence operative. All three men carried the damp chill of the midnight rain. They stood in a neat row before Vincent’s desk, their hats in their hands, their eyes darting briefly toward the maid resting on the sofa before quickly snapping back to their Don.
Vincent sat behind his desk. The warm, protective demeanor he had shown Charlotte was entirely gone. In its place was the devil of New York.
“Report,” Vincent said. The word was cold steel.
Dante stepped forward. “Mickey Sullivan runs a loan-sharking racket out of an auto-body shop on 48th Avenue in Sunnyside, Queens. He operates with ten men. Low-level muscle, strictly extortion, dock thefts, and beating up civilians who can’t pay five-points-a-week juice.”
“And Frankie Cole?” Vincent asked, his voice deceptively mild.
“Cole is Sullivan’s primary collector. Former amateur boxer. Dishonorably discharged from the Marines for aggravated assault. He was spotted at Sullivan’s garage forty minutes ago. All ten of them are currently drinking in the back office, counting the week's collections.”
Vincent opened the top drawer of his desk. He withdrew a silver cigarette case, extracted a black Sobranie, and lit it with a gold Dupont lighter. The blue smoke curled around his sharp, sculpted face.
“Forty thousand dollars,” Vincent murmured, looking through the smoke toward the sleeping form of Charlotte. “Her father owed Sullivan forty thousand dollars.”
Marco cleared his throat. “Boss... do you want us to pay it off? Clear the ledger, tell Sullivan the girl is under the family's protection?”
Vincent’s slate-gray eyes cut to Marco with such sudden, terrifying ferocity that the veteran capo physically took half a step back.
“Pay him?” Vincent whispered. The quietness of his voice was far worse than a scream. “You think I am going to give that gutter rat forty thousand dollars for breaking the bones of a woman who eats beneath my roof?”
“No, Don Vincent,” Marco said hastily, lowering his head. “My mistake.”
Vincent rose to his feet. He walked to the window, watching the rain strike the glass.
“I want all ten of them erased,” Vincent said.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
“All ten?” Luca asked quietly. “Sullivan has a loose affiliation with the Irish mob in Hell’s Kitchen.”
“If the Irish complain, I will burn Hell’s Kitchen to the waterline,” Vincent said without turning around. “Take three vans. Take silenced submachine guns. Take shotguns. I do not want an arrest. I do not want negotiations. I do not want a single man walking out of that garage alive.”
He turned around, his eyes burning with an ancient, terrifying wrath.
“And Frankie Cole?” Vincent added. “Do not shoot him. Bring Frankie Cole to the basement beneath the boathouse. I want the aluminum bat he used. Bring that, too.”
“Understood, Don Vincent,” Marco said.
“Before sunrise,” Vincent commanded. “I want Sullivan’s operation turned to ash before the morning papers hit the stands.”
The three men bowed their heads and retreated, the heavy door clicking shut behind them.
From the sofa, Charlotte let out a faint, terrified whimper. The drugs had dulled the pain, but the horror of what she had just heard pierced through the fog.
“Mr. DeAgostino...” she cried out weakly, trying to push herself up with her good right arm. “Please... you can't... for me? I’m just a maid. I’m nobody. You can't start a war over me...”
Vincent crossed the room in long, silent strides. He reached the couch and knelt down beside her, his face inches from hers.
“You are not nobody, Charlotte,” he said, his hand gently cupping the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her soft hair. “You have never been nobody to me. For two years, I have watched you carry yourself through this house like you were invisible. You thought I didn't see you?”
Charlotte stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs. “You... you saw me?”
“I saw how you tended the orchids in the conservatory because you thought no one else cared for them,” Vincent murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip. “I saw how you gave your lunch to the gate guards’ stray dog. I saw how you carried the weight of the whole damn world on those soft shoulders without ever asking for help.”
His eyes darkened with an intensity that made her breath hitch.
May you like
“Sleep now, little bird,” Vincent whispered. “When you wake up, your debt will be paid. In full.”
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