Chapter 6 - The Trap is Sprung
The return of Arya to the mansion three weeks later was marked by an unusual, frantic energy. She didn't bring her suitcases back; she arrived with Dominic and four heavily armed soldiers from the downtown crew at ten o'clock on a Tuesday morning.
They didn't wait in the dining room. They marched straight up to Vincent’s suite, the heavy thud of their boots echoing through the quiet house like a drumbeat of war.
When Dominic pushed the door open, he found Vincent sitting by the window, his cashmere blanket over his knees, his face turned toward the grey sky. Tessa was standing near the vanity, quietly polishing the silver brush set.
"It’s time to sign, Vince," Dominic said, stepping into the center of the room, his hand resting visibly on the butt of the pistol tucked into his waistband. He tossed a stack of legal documents onto the bed. "The harbor union went on strike at midnight. The Moretti family is moving on the South Side clubs. We can't wait for your pride to heal. Sign the transition files over to Arya, or the family will be destroyed by Friday."
Arya stepped forward, her red lips twisted into an expression of fake sympathy as she leaned over the wheelchair. "It’s for the best, Vincent. You can live out your days here in comfort. We will take care of the heavy lifting. You don't want to see your father’s work turned to ash, do you?"
Vincent slowly turned his head, his dark eyes looking from Arya’s face to Dominic’s tense, aggressive posture. He let out a long, quiet sigh that sounded remarkably like resignation.
"You’re right," Vincent whispered, his voice small, almost broken. "The family needs a man who can stand."
Dominic smiled, a triumphant, ugly look filling his eyes as he pulled a heavy gold fountain pen from his pocket and held it out to Vincent. "That's it, Vince. Just the signature on the last page. Let us handle the rest."
Vincent reached out his hand, his fingers closing around the gold pen. He pulled the documents toward his lap, his eyes scanning the lines of fine print that would strip him of every legal asset, every dollar, and every title he had spent his life earning.
He raised the pen, his hand hovering over the dotted line.
Then he stopped.
"Dominic," Vincent said softly, his voice suddenly losing every hint of weakness, returning to that deep, resonant baritone that had once ruled the city. "Where did you buy that watch?"
Dominic blinked, confused by the sudden shift. "What? My Rolex? I bought it in Gold Coast last month. What does that have to do with—"
"You bought it with the three hundred thousand you stole from the Cicero account," Vincent said smoothly, setting the pen down on top of the unsigned papers. "The account you used to pay the Moretti shooters who put me in this chair."
The room went completely, violently still. Dominic’s face drained of color, his hand instinctively jerking toward his waistband.
"Don't do it, Dom," a voice spoke from the doorway.
May you like
Silvio stood in the hall, his double-barreled shotgun raised, his eyes locked onto Dominic’s chest. Behind him, the hallway was lined with twelve older, scarred men from the West Side crew, their automatic rifles raised, their faces hard and entirely unyielding.
Dominic’s four soldiers slowly raised their hands, their weapons still in their holsters as they realized they had walked straight into a kill zone.
