Chapter 3 - THE SIT-DOWN
The private dining room at Trattoria del Sole in Little Italy smelled of roasted garlic, aged balsamic, and old money.
It was Thursday afternoon. The restaurant was officially closed for lunch, but its wrought-iron security gates were drawn halfway down, and four of Marco’s men stood outside on the cobblestone street with their hands tucked neatly inside their heavy wool coats.
Inside, Don Vittorio Bianchi—seventy-four years old, wearing a gold signet ring on his pinky and a tailored suit that couldn't hide his age—sat at the head of the table. Across from him sat Carmine Falcone, a younger, more volatile boss who controlled the waterfront unions.
Lorenzo Duca sat at the center, his posture relaxed, a cup of dark espresso resting untouched near his right hand.
“I hear congratulations are in order, Lorenzo,” Vittorio chuckled, his voice rattling like dry leaves in an urn. “A new addition to the family, so soon after your tragic loss. Who would have thought the great Duca was suffering from domestic deprivation?”
Carmine Falcone smirked, swirling a glass of Chianti. “Word on the street is the kid has good timing. Walks right up to the most dangerous man in the city and asks for a favor. Reminds me of the old days—some people get soft in their middle years, they start collecting strays.”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut glass.
Marco stood quietly behind Lorenzo’s left shoulder, his hand resting casually inside his jacket, his thumb hovering near the grip of his Sig Sauer.
Lorenzo did not raise his voice. He didn't tighten his grip on his coffee cup. He simply looked at Vittorio with the absolute, terrifying detachment of a judge reading a death warrant.
“Vittorio,” Lorenzo said smoothly. “When your grandson was arrested for trafficking narcotics through the Port Authority last month, did you consider him a stray, or merely an expensive liability?”
Vittorio’s smile vanished instantly. The color drained from his wrinkled cheeks.
“And Carmine,” Lorenzo continued, shifting his slate-gray eyes toward the younger boss. “Your cousin who tried to skim twenty percent off the Brooklyn concrete contracts last spring... did he find me soft when I had him pull his own truck out of the East River by hand?”
Carmine’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked furiously in his cheek. He swallowed hard, keeping his mouth shut.
“The little girl at the gala asked a question,” Lorenzo said, leaning forward slightly, resting his forearms on the white tablecloth. “I gave her an answer. If any man in this city interprets an act of common decency as an invitation to test my borders, he is welcome to try. But I promise you, the lesson will be much more permanent than a schoolyard festival.”
Vittorio cleared his throat, adjusting his collar with a trembling hand. “Of course, Lorenzo. No one is questioning your authority. We were merely... surprised. You’ve kept yourself locked in that fortress for three years. We only want to ensure your focus isn't... distracted.”
“My focus is absolute,” Lorenzo said softly. “And my schedule on Saturday is fully booked.”
May you like
He stood up, signaling Marco with a flick of his wrist.
“Finish your wine, gentlemen,” Lorenzo added as he turned toward the exit. “The bill is on me.”
