Chapter 3 - The Shadow of Brooklyn
The war room in the subterranean basement of the mansion smelled of stale espresso, tobacco, and danger.
A large, illuminated map of New York City’s shipping ports lay spread across a glass table, flanked by four computer monitors displaying live security feeds from the Brooklyn docks.
Dominic sat at the head of the table, his face unreadable as Salvatore and three senior lieutenants argued animatedly across the room.
"The Valentis are pushing their luck, Don Dominic," Frankie, a sharp-featured lieutenant in his thirties, argued fiercely. "They know we’ve been distracted since Isabella’s... since last year. They think you've gone soft because you're spending time in Long Island instead of managing the city."
"Frankie is right," Salvatore chimed in, leaning over the table, his thick fingers pointing at the Brooklyn pier map. "We need to hit back tonight. A fire at their warehouse in Queens. Show them the Russo family doesn't sleep."
Dominic remained silent, his fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the arm of his leather chair.
His mind wasn't on the Valenti family. His mind was upstairs, locked in the image of his daughters shrinking in fear when Salvatore had barged into the dining room.
"Don Dominic?" Frankie asked, hesitating. "What are your orders?"
"We don't burn the warehouse," Dominic declared coldly, his gray eyes sweeping over his men. "Burning a warehouse makes noise. Noise brings the federal prosecutors. The Valentis intercepted two crates of industrial machinery because someone inside our dock authority leaked the shipping manifests."
Salvatore stiffened slightly. "A leak? We check our men every week, Dominic."
"Then check them better," Dominic barked, standing up. "Find the traitor on the docks. Secure the remaining shipments silently. If a single gun is fired in Brooklyn without my direct order, I will personally throw the man who pulled the trigger into the East River. Am I clear?"
"Clear, Don Dominic," the lieutenants chorused, bowing their heads.
Salvatore lingered behind as the other men exited the basement war room. He lit a cigar, blowing a thick cloud of blue smoke toward the ceiling.
"You're changing, Dominic," Salvatore said, his tone carrying a subtle, dangerous edge. "Ever since that new maid started walking around upstairs, you look more like a suburban schoolteacher than the head of the five boroughs."
Dominic stopped near the heavy iron door, turning his head slowly to glare at his underboss. "Watch your tongue, Salvatore."
"I've stood by your side for twenty years," Salvatore countered, taking a step closer. "I took a bullet for your father in Chicago. I helped you take this territory after Isabella died. But the men are talking, Dominic. They see you rushing home for six o'clock dinners. They see a Spanish housekeeper running your household. It makes us look weak to our rivals."
Dominic stepped directly into Salvatore’s personal space, his eyes burning with pure, unadulterated menace.
"My daughters are speaking again, Salvatore," Dominic whispered, his voice like razor wire. "That housekeeper achieved in eight weeks what every dollar I own couldn't buy. If you ever disrespect her or enter my dining room like a brute again, I won't care about twenty years of loyalty. I will end you."
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Salvatore stared at Dominic, his eyes narrowing to cold slits. He slowly took the cigar from his mouth and nodded once. "Understood, Boss."
As Dominic walked up the basement stairs, he didn't see the dark, calculating expression that settled over Salvatore's face as the underboss pulled an encrypted cell phone from his pocket and dialed a private number.
