Chapter 4
Rocco threw Dominic back into the ruined wood of the desk with enough force to crack the remaining trim. He didn't look at his nephew again. He reached down, scooped three-year-old Maeve effortlessly into the crook of his left arm, and smoothed her disheveled curls with his right hand.
"Come, Maeve," Rocco said gently. "Let us go inspect your father's ovens."
He looked at Frank. "Bring Dominic to the back office. Put him in zip-ties. And call Dr. Bennett to meet us at Fourth Street."
"Yes, Don Rocco," Frank answered, waving three guards forward to haul Dominic away.
Rocco strode out of the club’s grand entrance into the crisp autumn sunlight. Outside, two armored black Maybachs were already idling at the curb, their tinted windows reflecting the high-rises. The lead driver leaped out, throwing the rear door open with clockwork precision. Rocco stepped inside, setting Maeve comfortably on the leather seat beside him.
The child looked around at the opulent interior, her eyes wide with wonder, clutching her small paper bag. "Are we going in the big shiny car?"
"We are," Rocco smiled faintly, the hard lines of his handsome face softening just enough to reveal the man beneath the monster. "And nobody is burning your father's ovens today, little bird."
The convoy rolled smoothly through the Manhattan traffic, arriving on Fourth Street within seven minutes.
Fourth Street was an old-world corridor of red-brick brownstones, wrought-iron fire escapes, and neighborhood shops that had survived the city's ruthless gentrification. In the center of the block stood Vance & Sons Bakery, its green canvas awning weathered by decades of winter storms.
Today, however, the front of the shop was a disaster area.
The large plate-glass display window had been shattered into hundreds of glittering shards across the sidewalk. Wooden flour crates were overturned, and a crude spray-painted red X covered the entrance door. Inside, behind the broken counter, a man of thirty-five with flour on his apron sat on a low stool, clutching a bleeding forehead while his wife wept softly beside him.
The heavy door of the lead Maybach clicked open.
Rocco stepped onto the sidewalk, holding Maeve’s hand as her small sneakers crunched over the broken glass. Four armed bodyguards fanned out across the curb in synchronized formation, their dark coats parting slightly to reveal concealed holsters.
Thomas Vance looked up from his bloodied towel, his eyes widening in pure, paralyzed terror as he saw the towering mob boss stepping through his ruined doorway.
"Mr. Castellano..." Thomas whispered, pulling his weeping wife behind his back. "Please... I told your nephew, I don't have the three thousand today. I have twelve hundred in cash... take it, please, just don't hurt my family!"
Maeve broke into a run, her small hands catching her father's apron. "Daddy! The man from the wheelchair came! He brought my quarter back!"
Thomas stared from his daughter to the monolithic figure standing beneath the flour-dusted lintel.
May you like
Rocco stopped three paces away. He did not raise his voice; he spoke with that deep, raspy cadence that commanded the entire eastern seaboard.
"Thomas Vance," Rocco said, each word spaced with surgical precision. "You owe this syndicate nothing."
