Chapter 7 - THE VELVET ANCHORThe Velvet Anchor was tucked away behind a row of shuttered warehouses on the industrial riverfront, its glowing magenta neon sign buzzing loudly against the damp night air. Inside, bass thrummed through the floorboards—a heavy, synthetic heartbeat that shook the crystal chandeliers overhead.
Victor Rossi sat in the VIP mezzanine overlooking the private club floor, a crystal tumbler of scotch in one hand, laughing at something one of his lieutenants was whispering in his ear.
At thirty-eight, Rossi had the arrogant, polished swagger of a man who thought he had inherited a throne by divine right. He had spent years in Matteo’s shadow, carrying briefcases, fetching cigars, and waiting for the legendary Black Lion to slip up. When Matteo simply vanished three years ago, Rossi had assumed the older man had gone into hiding out of weakness.
“Check the terminal again,” Rossi muttered to the lieutenant, not looking up from his drink. “Once those escrow funds clear from the upstate banks, the little diner girl and her cute little life are ours to leverage. Matteo won't risk a federal investigation to protect a waitress.”
“About that, Vic,” the lieutenant stammered, his face suddenly turning the color of skim milk as he stared past Rossi toward the grand staircase leading up from the club floor.
Rossi frowned. “What?”
The heavy bass music didn't stop, but the conversation at the surrounding VIP tables abruptly died, one by one, like candles blown out in a drafty hallway.
A man was walking up the carpeted stairs.
He wore a dark wool overcoat, open at the collar, his dark hair slightly damp from the river mist. Behind him walked Dante Moretti, carrying nothing, and behind Dante stood two men built like bank vaults—old-guard enforcers from the original Marquez syndicate who hadn't been seen in public since the great purge of 2023.
Rossi froze, his crystal glass hovering an inch from his mouth.
“Matteo?” the word slipped out of Rossi’s throat like a dry rattle.
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Matteo reached the top of the stairs, stepped onto the mezzanine floor, and stopped. He didn't pull a gun. He didn't raise his voice. He simply looked at Victor Rossi the way a master chess player looks at an opponent whose king is already trapped in a corner with nowhere to move.
“Hello, Victor,” Matteo said softly. “You’ve grown very comfortable in my chair.”
