Chapter 3 - The King's Judgement
The warehouse on 18th Street smelled of damp concrete, diesel fuel, and metal.
Sitting in the center of the vast, shadowy space were Vince Carrow and his four associates, tied tightly to heavy wooden chairs beneath a single hanging lightbulb.
Vince’s nose was swollen and taped, blood crusting his lips. He was weeping hysterically.
The heavy steel doors rolled up, and Dominic walked inside.
He had changed into a fresh black shirt and leather jacket. Behind him walked Marco and two other men carrying a laptop.
Dominic didn't hurry. He pulled a folding chair across the concrete, set it five feet in front of Vince, and sat down, leaning back with his arms resting on his knees.
“Mr. Hale!” Vince sobbed, squirming against the ropes. “Please! I’m sorry! I was drunk! I didn't know the waitress was your woman! I swear to God!”
Dominic took a silver cigar case from his pocket, selected a cigar, and lit it calmly.
“She’s not my woman,” Dominic said, exhaling a thin cloud of blue smoke. “She’s a hardworking citizen. And you tripped her with boiling sauce because you thought she was soft.”
“It was a joke!” Vince cried.
“A joke,” Dominic repeated coldly.
Marco set the laptop on a metal barrel in front of Vince.
The screen lit up with a video call.
On the screen was Sal Carrow—Vince’s uncle and a senior lieutenant in the Brooklyn syndicate. Sal looked old, tired, and deeply alarmed.
“Dominic,” Sal’s voice came through the speakers. “I hear my idiot nephew made a mistake in your territory.”
“He didn't make a mistake, Sal,” Dominic said smoothly, taking another pull from his cigar. “He committed a hate crime against a woman who works under my protection.”
Sal winced on the camera. “Dominic, look... Vince is a big-mouthed moron. I’ll beat him within an inch of his life myself. I’ll pay for the girl’s hospital bills. I’ll give you fifty grand for the insult. Just send him home.”
Dominic stood up from his chair.
He walked over to Vince, who shrank back as far as the ropes allowed.
Dominic reached down, grabbed Vince’s left boot—the one he had used to trip Clara—and set it on a heavy steel engine block resting on the floor.
“Sal,” Dominic said into the laptop microphone. “Your nephew ruined a woman’s skin and shattered her dignity for fun.”
Dominic looked down at Vince.
“He doesn't get to walk home.”
Dominic raised his heavy work boot and brought it down on Vince’s ankle with absolute, crushing precision.
A loud CRACK echoed through the concrete warehouse, followed instantly by Vince’s blood-curdling scream of agony.
Sal flinched hard on the screen, closing his eyes.
Dominic stepped back, dusting off his jacket cuff.
“The medical bills for Miss Jenkins are paid by your family,” Dominic told Sal coldly. “The fifty thousand goes into a trust fund for her mother’s remaining debts. And if Vince or any man from Brooklyn sets foot in Belmont again... I won't crush an ankle next time. I’ll take his head.”
Dominic closed the laptop screen, ending the call.
May you like
“Dump them outside the Brooklyn hospital,” Dominic told Marco. “Then clean the floor.”
Without another word, Dominic turned and walked out into the cool night air, heading back to St. Barnabas.
