Chapter 5 - Mulberry Street Sit-Down
The back room of the Mulberry Street social club smelled of stale espresso, cheap cigars, and decades of bad intentions.
Four men sat around the scarred mahogany table. At the head sat Salvatore Grimaldi, his heavy gold rings catching the dim light of the brass chandelier. He was cleaning his fingernails with a small silver penknife, a smug, oily smile plastered across his face.
"Vincent," Salvatore purred as I stepped into the room. "Look who decided to grace us with his presence. Word on the street is you've gone soft. Spending your nights in hospital rooms reading bedtime stories."
I didn't take a seat immediately. I walked slowly around the table, my boots clicking against the linoleum floor, letting the heavy silence stretch until the air in the room felt thick enough to choke on.
"You talk too much, Sal," I said softly, pulling out the chair opposite him and sitting down.
"I talk about what business dictates," Salvatore snapped, his smile fading as he leaned forward, planting his thick forearms on the table. "You've got a woman tucked away in Mount Sinai under police-level security. And a kid. A six-year-old kid with your exact face. The boys on the commission are asking questions, Vince. A king with an heir he kept hidden? That's a liability. That's a target."
The other three capos at the table shifted uneasily, avoiding my eyes. They knew how I operated. They knew what happened to men who questioned my authority.
"The woman is irrelevant," I said, keeping my voice dangerously calm. "The kid is none of your business."
"She's everyone's business if she compromises the family!" Salvatore slammed his hand down on the table, the glasses rattling. "If the Feds get a hook into her, if rival crews in Brooklyn find out you've got a soft spot—"
"They won't find out," I interrupted, standing up so fast my chair scraped loudly against the floor.
I leaned over the table, bringing my face inches from Salvatore's. I could smell the stale scotch on his breath.
"Listen to me very carefully, Sal," I whispered, the words slipping out like ice sliding off a roof. "You keep your mouth shut about Elena and you keep your eyes off my daughter. Because if I hear so much as a whisper that your men have been sniffing around Mount Sinai, I won't just strip your territory in Brooklyn. I'll take your tongue out with a pair of pliers and feed it to you."
Salvatore's face flushed a deep, ugly red. His hand twitched toward his coat pocket.
Before his fingers could even brush the fabric of his jacket, Marco stepped out of the shadows by the door, the cold black barrel of a suppressed automatic pistol resting casually against his thigh.
The other capos froze, holding their breath.
May you like
Salvatore slowly withdrew his hand, his chest heaving with suppressed rage. "You're making a mistake, Moretti. A family makes you weak. It's going to get you killed."
"Maybe," I said, buttoning my coat and turning toward the exit. "But until then, I'm still the one writing your paychecks."
