Chapter 7
Before leaving the bakery, Rocco walked back inside the flour-scented shop. Dr. Bennett had finished bandaging Thomas Vance’s forehead, while Sarah had gathered the broken glass into a metal bin.
Maeve was sitting on an unbroken flour sack, happily chewing on a cinnamon twist from her paper bag, swinging her small sneakers back and forth.
Rocco knelt before the little girl once more. He pulled a thick, leather-bound checkbook from his inner jacket pocket, unscrewed a heavy gold fountain pen, and wrote an amount with three swift strokes.
He ripped the paper from the register and handed it to Thomas Vance.
"Fifty thousand dollars," Rocco said quietly. "For the window, the display cases, and the inconvenience."
Thomas stared at the check, his eyes welling with tears. "Mr. Castellano... I cannot accept this. You already saved our lives today."
"You accept it, Thomas," Rocco replied, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "And from this day forward, your family pays zero protection fees. You are under the private, sovereign charter of the Castellano family. If any man asks you for a dime, tell him to speak to Rocco directly."
He looked at Maeve, his cold gray eyes softening. "And you, little bird. What do you want?"
Maeve looked at her paper bag, then up into his handsome, bearded face.
"Can you bring the shiny car back tomorrow?" she asked innocently. "I have more cinnamon rolls."
Rocco let out a rare, low chuckle—a deep, rumbling sound that made his soldiers exchange amazed glances. "I will be here at eight sharp for breakfast, Maeve. Keep the rolls warm."
He stood up, his face hardening instantly back into stone.
"Frank. Leave six armed men on this block," Rocco commanded. "Nobody touches this street. We are going back to the club."
By two-forty-five, the convoy pulled back up to the Castellano Club.
The shattered brass emblem and ruined mahogany desk had been swept away by an efficient cleanup crew, but the tension in the grand lobby was thick enough to choke on. Twenty heavily armed Castellano soldiers in tailored black suits lined the mezzanine railings, their assault carbines hidden beneath long wool coats.
In the center of the lobby, tied to an iron chair bolted to the floor, sat Dominic. His navy suit was torn, his platinum watch confiscated, his face pale with weeping terror.
The heavy bronze entrance doors clicked open.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in a charcoal cashmere overcoat stepped inside, flanked by four armed operatives carrying heavy leather briefcases.
It was Marcus Morello—the thirty-five-year-old underboss of the Chicago syndicate.
Morello looked around the quiet lobby, his arrogant, handsome face breaking into a wide, dismissive grin as he spotted Dominic tied to the chair.
"Well, well, Dominic," Morello chuckled, his Midwestern accent loud and confident. "Looks like you had a bit of a disagreement with your staff before our meeting."
From the shadows of the VIP lounge, slow, rhythmic footsteps echoed across the marble.
May you like
Rocco Castellano stepped into the light.
"Dominic didn't have a disagreement with his staff, Marcus," Rocco said, his deep, raspy voice cutting through the hall like a razor blade. "He had a reckoning with his Don."
