Chapter 5
Thomas Vance blinked through the dried blood on his temple, his hands trembling as he hugged Maeve against his chest. His wife, Sarah, pressed her back against the commercial dough mixer, clutching a wooden rolling pin like an absurd, desperate weapon.
"What... what do you mean, Mr. Castellano?" Thomas stammered, his American accent thick with working-class exhaustion. "Your nephew Dominic showed up yesterday with four armed men. He showed me the commercial buyout order bearing the Castellano seal. He said if I didn't vacate the lease or pay the protection premium by noon today, the shop was coming down."
Rocco walked over to the counter, pulled a clean linen handkerchief from his pocket, and stepped behind the register. With surprising, delicate care, he reached out and took the stained towel from Thomas’s forehead, pressing his own clean linen against the wound.
"Hold that tight, Thomas," Rocco murmured softly.
He turned his slate-gray eyes toward Sarah. "Put the rolling pin down, Mrs. Vance. My men are not here to collect a dime."
"Dominic was collecting for Chicago, Thomas," Rocco explained, leaning against the wooden counter. "He forged my seal while I was securing our logistics routes in Palermo. He thought he could sell Fourth Street to an outside syndicate before I returned to New York."
Thomas’s jaw dropped. "Chicago? But your family has owned the protective covenant on this block since nineteen-fifty-two!"
"And we still own it," Rocco replied, his voice dropping into that chilling, quiet register. "My grandfather signed a promise to your grandfather: as long as there is flour in these bins, no man touches this bread. The Castellano word does not expire because my nephew bought an expensive watch."
At that moment, the door chimes rattled. Dr. Bennett entered, carrying a heavy leather trauma kit, flanked by two armed sentries.
"Examine Thomas’s head, Robert," Rocco instructed. "Clean the laceration. Give him whatever antibiotics he requires."
"Right away, Don Rocco," the doctor said, immediately setting his kit on an undamaged prep table.
Outside, the screech of heavy tires echoed down Fourth Street.
Two black Cadillac Escalades with tinted windows pulled up aggressively behind Rocco’s Maybachs, double-parking in the middle of the narrow street. Four men in dark leather jackets and gold chains stepped out, carrying heavy iron crowbars and baseball bats. At their head walked a burly, scarred enforcer named Victor—Dominic’s personal muscle from the Brooklyn docks.
Victor strutted toward the shattered bakery entrance, completely oblivious to the unmarked federal-grade armor plating on the Maybachs parked at the curb.
"Vance!" Victor barked, his voice echoing off the brick brownstones. "Noon is up, baker! Where’s the three grand, or do we break the second oven?!"
Victor kicked the broken wooden door frame open and stepped inside.
He took two strides before he saw who was standing beside the cash register.
Rocco Castellano stood tall under the flour dust, his arms crossed over his chest, his dark tattoos visible beneath his rolled sleeves, his eyes dead as winter ice.
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Victor froze mid-step, the heavy crowbar slipping six inches in his sweaty palm.
"V-Victor," Rocco said softly, drawing out the syllables with lethal amusement. "You brought an iron bar to a bakery. Did Dominic teach you how to bake?"
