Chapter 6
Victor’s rosy cheeks drained of all color, turning the shade of spoiled milk. The three men behind him halted on the sidewalk, their baseball bats lowering to their sides as they took in the four towering Castellano soldiers flanking the storefront.
"Don... Don Rocco," Victor choked out, his throat clicking as he swallowed dryly. "We... we were just collecting the quarterly commercial fee for the front office. Dominic said—"
"Dominic is currently sitting in a basement chair with plastic ties around his wrists," Rocco interrupted, his voice extraordinarily quiet, every pause stretching like a hangman's rope. "Do you think Dominic signs the checks in this family, Victor?"
Victor began to tremble, backing toward the shattered glass doorway. "No, Boss! We didn't know! Dominic told us you were out of the country! He paid us five hundred cash each to clear the block!"
"You put a crowbar against Thomas Vance’s forehead for five hundred dollars?" Rocco murmured, stepping smoothly around the counter.
Rocco’s shoes crunched over the glass. He didn't rush. He closed the five-foot distance between them with the leisurely stride of an executioner inspecting a cell.
"Drop the iron, Victor," Rocco said.
Victor dropped the crowbar instantly. It hit the floorboards with a heavy, concussive clatter that made Maeve flinch in her father’s arms.
Rocco reached out. His large, tattooed right hand shot forward like an uncoiling spring, catching Victor by the throat with hydraulic force. With a single, brutal shove, Rocco slammed the two-hundred-pound enforcer backward through the ruined doorframe.
Victor crashed hard onto the concrete sidewalk, coughing and gasping for breath as Rocco towered over him in the midday sun.
The neighbors on Fourth Street—bakers, tailors, and elderly Italian women leaning out their apartment windows—watched in breathless silence.
Rocco looked at the three thugs shivering by the Escalades.
"Load your tools into the trunk," Rocco commanded, his voice carrying clearly down the entire block. "Get on your knees on the pavement. If any of you moves before my trucks arrive, Frank will put a hollow-point through your kneecap."
The three men practically dove into their vehicles, throwing their bats into the cargo bay before dropping flat onto the asphalt with their hands behind their heads.
Rocco turned his gaze back to Victor, who was crawling backward on his elbows.
"Who in Chicago financed Dominic's buyout, Victor?" Rocco asked, his tone flat and devoid of rage, which made it ten times more terrifying.
"It was... it was Marcus Morello!" Victor sobbed, tears cutting tracks through the grime on his face. "Morello’s advance crew is meeting Dominic at the club at three o'clock! They brought five million in bearer bonds to finalize the transfer of the Fourth Street titles!"
Rocco checked his gold wristwatch. "Two-fifteen."
A faint, predatory smile touched the corners of his trimmed beard.
"Frank," Rocco called out without turning his head.
May you like
"Yes, Don Rocco?"
"Call thirty men from the Brooklyn docks," Rocco ordered. "Tell them to secure every entrance to the Castellano Club. We have guests arriving from Chicago. And they are going to find out what a real contract looks like."
