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Marco’s heavy coat absorbed the damp chill of the hallway on the second floor of Callaway Street. The building smelled of old grease, boiled cabbage, and peeling paint. Down the hall, a flickering fluorescent bulb buzzed like a trapped hornet. / Chapter 2 / 8

Chapter 2 - THE SHADOW OF VITELLI

By midnight, the quiet apartment on Callaway Street felt like a distant memory, but Marco couldn't rid his mind of the child's wheezing sound or the mother's stubborn pride.

He sat in the high-backed leather chair of his private office above The Obsidian, a high-end lounge in the heart of the city's financial district. On the glass desk lay a dossier opened to a photograph of Jenny Reeves.

His lieutenant, Leo, leaned against the heavy oak bar, pouring two fingers of amber bourbon.

"She's nobody, Boss," Leo said, setting the glass down. "No criminal record, no high-society connections. Worked as an archivist at the city heritage museum until it closed down six months ago. Since then, she’s been working double shifts at a diner on 4th Avenue. The kid's name is Toby. Seven years old. Chronic pediatric asthma."

"Where's the father?" Marco asked, his fingers tracing the edge of the photograph.

"Dead," Leo replied flatly. "Four years ago. Hit-and-run on the highway. Case was cold before the ink on the police report dried."

Marco took a slow sip of his drink. "Find out who owns the building on Callaway Street."

"Vane owns it through an LLC," Leo offered with a slight smirk. "Or he did. I already spoke to our attorneys. By tomorrow morning, the deed belongs to Vitelli Enterprises. She won't have to worry about rent again."

"Good," Marco muttered.

Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the office swung open without a knock.

A tall man with silvering hair, wearing an immaculate three-piece suit, walked into the room. It was Dominick Russo, Marco’s uncle and the patriarch of the rival faction within the Syndicate. His smile was sharp, like a straight razor wrapped in silk.

"Marco," Dominick said, walking over to the window that overlooked the glowing skyline. "I hear you were doing charitable work in the slums today. Buying cracked iPhones and paying off back rent for diner waitresses?"

Marco’s eyes narrowed. "You're tracking my movements, Dominick?"

"I don't need to track you; the street speaks," Dominick chuckled, turning around to face his nephew. "Word travels fast when the head of the Vitelli family acts like a savior to a nobody. Do you know how weak that makes us look to the Moretti family? They are creeping onto our northern docks, and you are playing Guardian Angel to a broken woman."

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The burner phone in my hand felt heavy, like a slab of cold iron pulled from a sunken ship. Across the line, Marcus let out a breath that sounded like a low whistle escaping a pressure valve. Nineteen years of rust, nineteen years of school plays, quiet dinners, and ledger sheets—all of it dissolved in the space of a single heartbeat.

The burner phone in my hand felt heavy, like a slab of cold iron pulled...

The man in the back of the Bentley was not a stranger, though it took me three agonizing seconds to place the face behind the silver-trimmed beard. Arthur Vance. The reclusive billionaire shipping tycoon, corporate sniper, and my father’s oldest, most estranged rival.

The man in the back of the Bentley was not a stranger, though it took me...

The ink on the medical schedule wasn't standard printer black. It was darker, heavier, pressed down with the kind of deliberate malice that only a fountain pen could deliver. I stared at the signature at the bottom of the page, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

The ink on the medical schedule wasn't standard printer black. It was da...

Marco stood up slowly, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the marble floor. "What I do with my time and my money is my business, Dominick. Do not test my patience."

"Careful, nephew," Dominick warned, his voice dropping an octave, filled with dark malice. "In our world, weakness isn't forgiven. If this woman becomes an anchor around your neck, someone might just cut the rope."

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