Chapter 3 - Blood on the CobblestonesMidnight on the docks of the West Side was a graveyard of rusting shipping containers and oil-slicked asphalt. But tonight, the courtyard of the Verrone estate—normally a sanctuary of manicured hedges and imported marble fountains—looked more like a medieval execution ground.
Four luxury black SUVs sat with their high beams glaring blindingly against the stone walls, casting long, distorted shadows across the courtyard.
Victor Vance, a bulky man with a permanent sneer and knuckles scarred from decades of street violence, spat a stream of tobacco onto the pristine pavement. He stood flanked by six of his heaviest enforcers, all of them armed with concealed submachine guns. They had been dragged out of their beds an hour ago by Verrone’s men, bundled into the backs of vans, and driven here like cattle.
"What the hell is this?!" Victor barked, stepping forward and puffing out his chest despite the cold gun barrels pressed against the backs of his men's knees by Rafael Conti's execution squad. "You think you can snatch me off my turf, Verrone? I got muscle all over the city! You touch me, and the docks go up in flames!"
The heavy oak doors of the mansion creaked open.
A chilling hush fell over the courtyard. Damiano stepped out into the crisp autumn air. He had discarded his suit jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt to reveal forearms corded with muscle and pale, faded scars. In his right hand, he dragged a heavy steel-headed shovel across the stone, creating a horrific, ear-splitting screech of metal against rock that made Victor’s men flinch.
"Victor Vance," Damiano said softly, his voice cutting through the hum of the idling engine blocks.
Victor forced a rough, nervous laugh, trying to mask his rising panic. "Damiano. Look, if this is about the Miller woman, we can talk business. She owes a debt. Interest is a bitch, you know how it is. Pay me fifty grand right now, and I’ll wipe the slate clean. Otherwise, that brat of hers—"
CLANG!
Damiano didn't speak. He hurled the shovel through the air. It spun viciously, slicing past Victor’s ear and embedding itself deep into the wooden pillar of the portico just inches behind him.
Victor stopped dead, his breath catching in his throat. His bravado evaporated instantly.
"Fifty grand," Damiano murmured, stepping forward until he was standing a mere foot away from the loan shark. The sheer aura of dark, suffocating menace radiating from the mob king made Victor instinctively step back, his heels clicking against the stone. "You put a price on a little girl's home. You threatened to burn her alive."
"She owes—" Victor stammered, his voice cracking.
"She owes nothing," Damiano interrupted, his voice dropping into a lethal purr. "Because as of ten minutes ago, the Verrone family acquired every single debt ledger you possess. Every loan, every mortgage, every scrap of paper with a signature on it in your name belongs to me."
Victor’s eyes widened in horror. "You... you bought my business? You can't do—"
"I am the underworld, Victor," Damiano whispered, leaning in close so only the loan shark could hear. "You don't do business in New York without my permission. And you certainly don't threaten my family."
"Your family?!" Victor shrieked hysterically. "She’s a maid’s kid! Everyone in the city knows your wife and child died three years ago! You don't have a family!"
The courtyard went deathly, terrifyingly still.
Rafael Conti closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, knowing what was coming.
Damiano’s fist moved so fast it blurred in the glare of the headlights. A sickening CRACK echoed across the courtyard as Damiano's knuckles connected squarely with Victor’s jaw. The loan shark spun through the air, crashing hard against the asphalt, blood spraying from his split lip.
Before Victor could even groan, Damiano was on top of him. He grabbed the larger man by the lapels of his leather jacket, hauling him up effortlessly with one hand while the other rained down a flurry of brutal, calculated blows that silenced the courtyard.
"You are going to listen very carefully to me, Victor," Damiano said, his knuckles crimson, his breathing completely even as he stared down at the whimpering, broken man beneath him. "Tomorrow morning at eight o'clock, you are going to pack up every single ledger, every threat, every piece of paper relating to Elena Miller, and you are going to burn them in a barrel at the bottom of the docks."
"Y-Yes..." Victor sobbed, spitting out a broken tooth. "I'll do it! I swear to God!"
"And if I ever hear your name, or see your shadow, or smell your cheap cologne anywhere within three miles of that woman or her daughter..." Damiano leaned down, his eyes burning with the fires of hell itself, "...I won't just bury you in that courtyard. I'll make sure they dig you up every single day just to kill you again."
Damiano stood up, shaking the blood off his hands with absolute disgust. He looked at Rafael.
"Throw them out. And if any of them come back, feed them to the dogs."
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As Rafael’s men hauled the groaning loan sharks toward the iron gates, Damiano walked back toward the mansion. He stopped at the portico, pulling the shovel out of the wood with a sharp yank. He looked down at his stained shirt sleeves, then up at the dark, starless Manhattan sky.
Tomorrow, a little girl needed a father. And Damiano Verrone was about to teach New York what happens when you mess with a Verrone princess.
