Chapter 11 - WOLVES AT THE BORDER
Z
The execution of Vinnie Moretti sent a shockwave through the Boston underworld that shattered any remaining illusions of a peaceful transition. Vincent wasn't just reclaiming his throne; he was salting the earth of anyone who had dared to doubt him. For three days, the city held its breath. The capos fell perfectly into line, kicking up their percentages early and over-delivering on their promises. I spent those days analyzing Moretti’s ledger, tracing the intricate web of offshore accounts and shell companies the Lupertazzi family had used to fund Julian’s doomed rebellion.
The numbers painted a terrifying picture. New York wasn't just testing the waters; they were preparing for a massive, hostile takeover. Boston was the final jewel they needed to monopolize the East Coast shipping routes, and they had poured an exorbitant amount of capital into the venture. Julian’s death meant their investment was suddenly entirely exposed.
On the evening of the fourth day, the tension finally snapped.
I was in the estate’s grand library, a fire roaring in the massive stone hearth, cross-referencing shipping manifests on a laptop, when the heavy oak doors swung open. Vincent strode in, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit, his face carved from granite. He threw a thick, cream-colored envelope onto the desk in front of me.
"They’ve sent an envoy," Vincent said, pouring himself two fingers of scotch from the crystal decanter. "Don Carlo Lupertazzi’s right-hand man, a sociopath named Dominic 'The Viper' Santoro. He just checked into the penthouse suite at the Four Seasons."
I picked up the envelope, opening the wax seal. Inside was a single, elegantly typed card requesting a sit-down at a neutral location—an upscale, private Italian restaurant in the North End—at midnight.
"They’re demanding a meeting," I noted, looking up at him. "Do we go?"
"If we refuse, we look weak. We look like we're hiding behind our walls," Vincent said, taking a sip of his drink. "If we go, it's a guaranteed trap. Santoro doesn't do diplomacy. He does executions."
"Then we walk into the trap and break its jaws," I said smoothly, shutting the laptop. "They still think you're dealing with a fractured syndicate. They think the loss of Moretti disorganized us. We show them a united front. We show them they can't buy Boston."
Vincent looked at me, his gaze dropping to the two holstered pistols I now wore as a permanent accessory. The dynamic between us had shifted irrevocably since the night of the ballroom. There was a dark, electric current that crackled every time we were in the same room. I was no longer an employee; I was his confidante, his enforcer, and something entirely more dangerous that neither of us had dared to put a name to yet.
"You're coming with me," Vincent stated. It wasn't a question. "Santoro is notoriously arrogant. He won't expect me to bring a woman to a Commission sit-down. Let him underestimate you."
"Everyone underestimates me, Vincent," I smirked, slipping the envelope into my coat pocket. "Right up until I put a bullet in their chest."
At 11:45 PM, our heavily armored convoy pulled up to the restaurant. The street was entirely deserted, cleared out by New York’s muscle. Massive, broad-shouldered men in tailored suits stood at the corners, their eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses despite the hour. They watched our SUVs with predatory stillness.
Vincent and I stepped out. I fell into step perfectly beside him, my posture immaculate, projecting the cold, deadly grace of a cartel assassin. The New York guards moved to pat us down at the door, but Vincent stopped them with a single, terrifying glare.
"Touch me, and you'll be digesting your own hands," Vincent growled.
The guards hesitated, looking at each other, before stepping aside and opening the door.
The restaurant was empty save for a single table in the center of the room, illuminated by a low-hanging chandelier. Sitting at the head of the table was Dominic Santoro. He was a striking man in his early forties, with slicked-back dark hair, a razor-sharp jawline, and eyes that looked like dead, black stones. He smiled lazily as we approached, swirling a glass of red wine.
"Vincent Costanza," Santoro purred, not bothering to stand up. "Back from the grave, and looking remarkably well for a man who just lost his own brother. And who is this stunning creature? I wasn't aware the Boston syndicate was hiring fashion models."
I didn't blink. I pulled out a chair for Vincent, allowing him to sit, before standing directly behind his right shoulder, my hands clasped loosely in front of me, resting inches from my weapons.
Vincent ignored the insult, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the white linen tablecloth. "Let's skip the theatrical garbage, Dominic. You backed a dead horse. Julian is rotting in a morgue, and your ten million dollar investment in my city is gone. If you're here to ask for a refund, you've wasted a trip."
Santoro’s smile vanished, replaced by a sneer that exposed perfect, white teeth. "You think this is a negotiation, Costanza? You're a dying breed. Your family is weak, your capos are terrified, and your city is bleeding. We didn't come for a refund. We came for the keys. You sign over the east-side ports to the Lupertazzi family tonight, or we burn Boston to the ground and take them from your ashes."
May you like
The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Santoro snapped his fingers, and four heavily armed men stepped out from the shadows of the kitchen, their weapons trained directly on us.
"I highly suggest you find a pen, Vincent," Santoro whispered.
