Chapter 4 - Dinner at the Lion’s DenMarcone’s private social club—The Blue Heron—disguised itself as an exclusive, members-only cigar lounge in Little Italy. Behind the mahogany front bar and the soft jazz playing through vintage speakers, however, sat the nerve center of Marcone’s Brooklyn operations.
When the heavy front doors were kicked open with a deafening crash, the jazz music cut off mid-note.
Four armed enforcers standing near the back VIP booths reached for their shoulder holsters, but they didn't even get their weapons halfway out before Roman and three Valente enforcers opened fire with suppressed handguns. The popping sound of silenced shots echoed softly through the smoke-filled lounge as Marcone’s men dropped to the plush carpet, neutralized without a single civilian noticing in the front room.
Naomi walked through the doorway right behind Dominic. She wore a sharp charcoal pantsuit, her hair pulled back into a sleek bun, her briefcase clutched in her hand like a weapon. She looked less like a syndicate accountant and more like an executioner stepping onto a boardroom floor.
At the back table, sitting beneath a massive oil painting of a Sicilian vineyard, Sal Marcone was finishing a plate of veal scallopini.
Marcone was a heavy-set man in his late sixties, with thinning gray hair, gold-rimmed glasses, and a permanent scowl carved into his jowls. He looked up, chewing slowly, before spotting Dominic standing in the doorway.
Instead of panicking, Marcone let out a raspy, phlegmy laugh.
"Valente," Marcone mocked, lifting his wine glass. "I wondered when the king of Manhattan would crawl out of his glass tower to visit the neighborhood. And you brought your little pencil-pusher with you. How touching."
Dominic walked slowly toward the table, his hands sliding casually into his trouser pockets. He didn't look at the food, nor did he look at the dead enforcers lying by the bar. His eyes were fixed entirely on Marcone with a terrifying, calm clarity.
"Sal," Dominic said smoothly. "You look terrible. Stress doesn't suit you."
"Stress?" Marcone snorted, setting his wine glass down with a sharp clack. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small, silver USB drive—Naomi’s stolen backup drive—and tossed it carelessly onto the center of the white tablecloth, right beside his plate of half-eaten veal.
"Looking for this, sweetheart?" Marcone grinned, looking directly at Naomi. "Your little secret stash. Turns out your encryption is cute, but your password is your brother Leo’s birthday. Real original."
Naomi’s face flushed with hot anger, her fingers twitching on the handle of her briefcase.
Marcone leaned forward, locking eyes with Dominic. "Here's how this plays out, Valente. You hand over the shipping docks on Pier 42, and I don't mail this thumb drive to the U.S. Attorney’s office in Brooklyn. You keep your cash flowing, and I get my port. Fair trade, right?"
The silence in the lounge was absolute.
Dominic didn't look at the USB drive. He didn't look at Marcone.
He slowly turned his head to look at Naomi.
"Is that your drive, Naomi?" Dominic asked softly.
"Yes," she answered, her voice cold and steady.
"Is there anything on that drive that could put you behind bars if it falls into the wrong hands?"
Naomi hesitated for a fraction of a second, then shook her head. "No. Everything on that drive is encrypted to dead-end shell companies that trace back to accounts registered under fake names in the Cayman Islands. If the feds open it, they'll chase ghost numbers for the next ten years."
Dominic’s mouth twitched into that familiar, cold smirk. He turned his gaze back to Marcone.
"You heard her, Sal," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a lethal whisper. "It’s worthless."
Marcone’s smug expression faltered for a microsecond. "Bullshit! It’s her personal backup! It has the Delaware routing numbers!"
"Which lead to a corporation that dissolved at midnight," Naomi added smoothly, stepping forward and picking up her silver thumb drive from the table. She slipped it neatly into the inner pocket of her blazer, staring down at Marcone with absolute disdain. "Thank you for returning it, Sal. Saves me the trouble of buying a new one."
Marcone went purple with rage. He slammed his fists down on the table, rattling the silverware. "Kill them! Kill them all!" he roared.
Before Marcone could finish his sentence, Roman stepped out from the shadows behind Marcone’s chair, jammed the barrel of his pistol hard against the back of Marcone’s neck, and forced his face straight down into the plate of veal scallopini.
A wet, muffled scream of agony echoed against the porcelain plate.
The remaining two enforcers in the back room started to draw their weapons, but Dominic moved with blinding speed. He drew his own firearm, firing two precise, lightning-fast shots into the chest of the nearest guard, dropping him instantly. Roman casually swept the legs out from under the second guard, pistol-whipping him unconscious before he hit the floor.
Within four seconds, the room was secure once more.
Marcone was pinned to the table, sauce smeared across his nose and glasses, wheezing for breath as Roman kept the gun pressed firmly to his spine.
Dominic stepped closer, leaning down so his face was inches from Marcone’s ear.
"You broke into the wrong home, Sal," Dominic whispered, his voice like ice sliding over glass. "And you touched the wrong person."
Marcone let out a ragged, terrified gasp. "Okay! Okay! Take the docks! Take everything! Just don't kill me!"
"I'm not going to kill you," Dominic said quietly, straightening up and smoothing his cuffs. "Killing you would be merciful. Instead, Naomi is going to drain every penny you own by midnight. You're going to spend your golden years working as a night watchman in a New Jersey parking garage."
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Dominic turned away, walking toward the exit. He stopped by the door, looking back over his shoulder at Naomi, who stood frozen in the center of the blood-spattered lounge, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Well, Naomi?" Dominic asked, a subtle, dark amusement in his eyes. "Are you coming, or do you have more accounts to liquidate?"
