Chapter 6 - The Gathering of Storms
Three weeks passed.
Winter settled deep into New England, burying Boston under three feet of icy snow. But inside the Torino mansion, the season felt entirely different.
The East Wing was fully alive. Carmen had recovered remarkably under Dr. Mercer's care, her color returning, her severe cough entirely cured. Though Vincent had strictly forbidden her from working as a maid, her quiet, industrious nature couldn't be completely contained. She took over the management of the estate's inner household—coordinating the kitchen staff, managing the linen inventory, and turning the cold, imposing mansion into a warm, smelling-of-baked-bread home.
Isabella had been enrolled in a prestigious private school four miles from the estate. Every morning, a private car driven by Sal—one of Vincent's most trusted lieutenants—escorted her through the iron gates, and every afternoon she returned to do her homework in Vincent's grand study while he reviewed his shipping manifests.
To the outside world, Vincent Torino was still the terrifying, unyielding sovereign of the Massachusetts waterfront. But within the walls of his home, he had become something entirely new: a guardian.
However, in the shadow world of organized crime, peace is merely the brief interval between storms.
On a freezing Thursday evening in mid-March, Vincent sat in his study, reviewing the monthly dock ledgers with Marco.
The heavy mahogany door opened, and Paulie stepped inside, his face pale, his dark wool coat dripping with melted slush.
"Boss," Paulie said, his voice tight. "We have a situation at the South Boston terminal."
Vincent set his gold pen down. "What kind of situation, Paulie?"
"A convoy from New York just crossed the state line," Paulie reported, pulling off his leather gloves. "Six armored Suburban vehicles. Don Carmine Moretti is in the lead car himself."
Marco stood up instantly, his hand dropping to his shoulder holster. "Carmine came personally? He hasn't left Manhattan in five years."
"He's eighty years old, Marco," Paulie said grimly. "He brought thirty heavy shooters from the Brooklyn crews. They've taken over the top floor of the Harbor Hotel downtown. Carmine sent a formal summons to our office twenty minutes ago."
Vincent remained seated, his face unreadable. "What does the summons say?"
"He wants a sit-down at midnight," Paulie said, holding out a sealed thick paper envelope. "At the Old North Church hall in the North End. He says if you don't show up alone, his men will blow three of our freight vessels out of the harbor before sunrise."
Marco spat on the floor. "The old bastard is bluffing! We can mobilize fifty men from East Boston in an hour! We intercept his convoy before midnight and—"
"No," Vincent interrupted flatly.
Marco blinked. "Boss?"
"Carmine Moretti didn't drive four hours through a blizzard at eighty years old to play chicken on the docks," Vincent said, standing up and adjusting his suit jacket. "He came because his pride was damaged when I put my hand around his nephew's throat. If we start a war in the streets of Boston right now, the federal prosecutors will use it as an excuse to seize every dock we own."
"So you're going to his sit-down?" Marco asked, genuine worry lacing his voice. "It's a trap, Vincent! He knows you're attached to the girl now! His informants have been watching the house!"
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Vincent turned his eyes toward the window overlooking the courtyard. Down below, near the warm light of the kitchen windows, Carmen and Isabella were building a snowman, their laughter drifting faintly through the thick glass.
"They can watch all they want, Marco," Vincent whispered, his eyes narrowing into cold slits of tungsten steel. "Tell Paulie to assemble the inner guard. We leave for the North End at eleven."
