Chapter 5 - The River Club Sit-Down
The River Club was a private, low-lit sanctuary perched on the edge of the East River, its massive glass windows looking out over the black, swirling water and the glittering lights of the Long Island City waterfront. The dining room had been cleared of its usual corporate executives and old-money patrons; tonight, it belonged entirely to the shadows.
Emily stepped out of the black town car, her hand resting firmly in the crook of Vincent’s arm. She wore a tailored hunter green silk dress Vincent had selected for her, the color accentuating the warmth of her skin and the dark intensity of her hair. She looked elegant, aristocratic, but her heart was beating like a trapped bird against her ribs.
Vincent walked with an effortless, predatory grace, his black tuxedo immaculate, his face a mask of absolute, chilling calm. Behind them walked Gabriel and three other security operatives, their coats unbuttoned, their eyes scanning every corner of the room.
At the center table, beneath a massive crystal chandelier that had been turned down to a low amber glow, sat old Don Marcone—a massive, ancient man with liver spots on his hands and eyes like a dead fish. Beside him sat Marcus Gallo, his charcoal coat gone, revealing a sharp Italian suit and that same empty, dead-eyed smile Emily had seen in the parking garage.
"Vincent," Don Marcone said, his voice a wet, gravelly wheeze. "You look well for a man who has been spending so much time in the pediatric wing. And this must be the miraculous Miss Carter."
Vincent slid into the leather chair across from the old man, guiding Emily into the seat beside him. He didn't offer his hand. He didn't smile. He simply rested his large hands on the white tablecloth, his eyes locking onto Marcus Gallo with a force that made the younger man's smile falter for a fraction of a second.
"Let’s cut the theater, Marcone," Vincent said, his voice smooth and terrifyingly quiet. "You asked for a meeting to discuss the docks on Pier 42. You brought Gallo because he thinks he's a diplomat. Now speak before I get bored."
Gallo leaned forward, his eyes sliding over Emily with a calculated, insulting familiarity. "We’re just concerned about stability, Moretti. For four years, your family has been quiet. We thought maybe the stress of your loss... the silence of your boy... maybe it was too much for one man to carry. We heard you brought in a little therapist from Queens to fix the problem. We wanted to make sure she wasn't filling your head with ideas about moving into legitimate logistics."
Emily felt the air in the room turn to ice. She looked at Vincent, expecting him to roar, to reach across the table, to draw a weapon. But he did something far worse.
He leaned back in his chair and laughed—a low, melodic sound that carried no humor, only an absolute, terrifying contempt.
"Marcus," Vincent said softly, leaning forward until his face was inches from Gallo’s across the white cloth. "You think because my son was quiet, I was blind? For four years, I've been waiting for you to move your assets into the northern warehouses. I let you buy the transit lines. I let you pay off the customs officials on Pier 42. I let you do all the hard work because I knew the day my son spoke his first word, I was going to take everything you built and turn it into dust."
He pulled a small leather folder from his pocket and tossed it onto the table. It slid across the linen, stopping right against Don Marcone's wine glass.
"What is this?" the old man muttered.
"That is the federal indictment for Marcus Gallo’s offshore accounts in Panama," Vincent said flatly. "The ones he’s been using to skim from your family’s treasury for three years, Don Marcone. He thought he was using Emily to find a weakness in me, while Emily’s clinic was helping me analyze the shipping logs your people left at Mount Sinai. She didn't even know she was doing it, but her administrative staff is very thorough with billing records."
Gallo’s face drained of color, his eyes turning wild as he looked at the folder, then at his boss. "Don Marcone, it’s a lie—he’s trying to split us—"
Don Marcone didn't look at Gallo. He opened the folder, his ancient eyes scanning the bank sheets, his jaw tightening until his old skin went taut. He looked up at Vincent, a deep, begrudging respect in his dead-fish eyes.
"You're your father's son, Vincent," the old man whispered. "The Marcone family withdraws all claims to Pier 42. And Marcus Gallo is... no longer our concern."
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Vincent stood up, pulling Emily's chair back with one smooth motion. He didn't look at Gallo, who was already being flanked by two of Marcone's own enforcers. He looked down at Emily, his expression softening into that intense, protective warmth that belonged only to her.
"Let’s go home, Emily," Vincent said, his hand sliding down to clasp hers, his long fingers locking with hers in plain sight of every shadow in the room. "Lucas is waiting for his story."
