Chapter 3 - The Shadow in QueensThe ride back to our tiny two-room basement apartment in Queens was taken inside the warm, leather-scented luxury of a Maybach sedan. The driver, a polite, broad-shouldered man named Leo, opened our doors, carried our small groceries, and made sure we were safely inside before driving away.
That night, for the first time in years, our small apartment felt different. The red velvet shoes sat proudly on top of the small wooden table, catching the warm light of our single lamp. Rosie fell asleep in her small bed holding her bus ticket drawing, her red shoes placed neatly on the chair beside her.
I sat at the small kitchen table, staring at the silver card Dominic had given me.
DOMINIC MORETTI — MORETTI GLOBAL HOLDINGS.
I didn't know then that while I was boiling plain tea in my small kitchen, Dominic Moretti was sitting in his private penthouse in Manhattan, reviewing a thick intelligence dossier compiled by Marcus Vance.
In the penthouse study, rain tapped against the high glass windows overlooking the glittering Manhattan skyline.
Dominic sat behind a heavy walnut desk, a crystal glass of bourbon resting near his hand. On the desk lay several photographs taken four years ago, alongside certified financial logs and police records.
Marcus Vance stood across from the desk, his face grim.
"We ran the name Clara Vance, Boss," Marcus reported smoothly. "She works at Novak's Bakery in Queens, earning $148 a week before taxes. She pays $90 a week for that basement apartment, leaving her with barely enough to buy food."
Dominic's fingers tightened around his glass until the crystal groaned. "And her husband?"
"Julian Vance," Marcus revealed, tossing a second folder onto the desk. "He didn't abandon them to find work in Chicago, Boss. He fled New York four years ago after stealing three hundred thousand dollars from a local union fund. He's currently living in Miami under a fake identity, working as a regional manager for a rival shipping company... and spending his money on luxury boats and a new mistress."
CRASH!
Dominic slammed his crystal glass flat against the mahogany desk, shattering it into a hundred glittering shards. Bourbon spilled across the leather blotter, but Dominic didn't even look down at his bleeding hand.
His storm-gray eyes burned with a terrifying, apocalyptic rage that made even Marcus take a cautious step back.
"He left a mother and a six-year-old child to starve in a freezing basement in Queens," Dominic spoke, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register that vibrated through the room. "He let that little girl walk through the snow in worn boots while he bought boats in Miami."
"Boss..." Marcus warned softly. "Julian Vance is protected by the Miami syndicate. Moving against him could break our current coastal agreement."
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Dominic stood up slowly. At six-foot-two, his broad shoulders filled the room like a physical weight.
"I don't care about the coastal agreement, Marcus," Dominic stated flatly, his voice ringing with absolute, unyielding authority. "Bring Julian Vance back to New York. By sunrise."
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