Chapter 4 - Blood on the Table
The silence that followed Adriano’s warning was heavy enough to crush bone. Marcus Vance’s smile didn't fade, but his eyes twitched—a microscopic crack in the armor of an old predator who wasn't used to being publicly checked by a younger boss.
"Of course, Boss," Marcus muttered, raising his crystal glass of scotch in a mocking salute. "Just surprised, is all. We thought you'd pick a bloodline. Not a waitress from a charity gala."
"My choices require no explanation, and certainly no approval," Adriano pulled out the high-backed velvet chair for Dileia. She slid into it, her spine rigid, her hands neatly folded in her lap. She could feel the stares of the other five capos burning into the side of her face like acid.
They thought she was a weakness. They thought Adriano had let sentimentality cloud his judgment. That was the exact illusion Adriano needed them to believe—and the exact illusion Dileia needed to shatter before the night was over.
"Let’s talk business," Adriano said, sitting down beside her. He didn't touch his food yet. His hands rested flat on the table, fingers spread, relaxed and deadly. "The North End docks. There have been unauthorized shipments coming in under my radar. Marcus, you oversee that sector. Care to explain why my inventory logs don't match the cargo arriving on the pier?"
Marcus took a slow sip of his scotch, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. "Must be a clerical error, Adriano. You know how the unions are. Slow, sloppy. Nothing to worry your pretty new bride about."
Dileia didn't look at Marcus. Instead, she picked up her crystal water glass, took a measured sip, and set it back down with a sharp clink that cut through the murmur of the room.
"It’s not a clerical error," Dileia said, her voice clear, calm, and carrying an absolute certainty that made every man at the table stop chewing.
Marcus’s eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me, little girl?"
"Dileia," Adriano corrected softly, leaning back in his chair, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching the corner of his lips. He was letting her play.
"My father worked the North End docks for twenty years before his lungs gave out," Dileia said, turning her head to look Marcus dead in the eye. "He taught me how to read the port manifests when I was ten years old. A clerical error looks like a misplaced decimal or a delayed shipping date. What’s happening on Pier 4 is a systemic diversion—sixty crates of imported Italian steel missing every Tuesday night. That doesn't happen by accident. That happens because someone with an unloading manifest is selling your inventory to the Russian syndicate on the south side."
The dining room went utterly, terrifyingly still.
Marcus Vance slammed his glass down so hard the amber liquid sloshed over the rim. "You accusing me of leaking to the Russians, you little bitch?"
Before Marcus could finish standing up, the heavy mahogany doors behind him banged open. Two armed enforcers stepped into the room instantly, their hands resting smoothly on the grips of the suppressed pistols beneath their suit jackets.
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Adriano didn't even blink. He slowly turned his head toward Marcus, his gray eyes shining like polished steel under the chandelier.
"She didn't accuse you, Marcus," Adriano said, his voice dropping into a deadly, whispered purr. "She just proved you were incompetent. Or a traitor. Which one would you prefer I investigate first?"
