Chapter 3 - The Price of Treason
The basement beneath the Costa estate was not a torture dungeon; Vincent had abandoned those barbaric methods a decade ago when he modernized the organization’s operations. It was a secure, soundproofed holding suite equipped with industrial fluorescent lighting, reinforced steel chairs, and high-definition surveillance cameras that recorded every second of footage directly to encrypted cloud servers.
Lorenzo sat strapped into a steel chair, weeping openly. His expensive suit was torn, his silk tie discarded on the concrete floor.
Across from him, Camila sat huddled in a plain folding chair, shivering in the cold subterranean air. Her designer mourning dress looked ridiculous under the stark, unforgiving light. Her hair was tangled, her eyes bloodshot, her arrogance completely shattered into dust.
Vincent stood by the observation glass, watching his security chief sort through the hitman’s encrypted phone.
Dr. Matteo stood beside Vincent, reviewing a thick digital file on a tablet.
"The wire transfers from the Romanos were flagged at four in the morning, Vincent," Matteo reported quietly. "Camila had already authorized the transfer of the shipping manifests for pier forty-two. She also drafted an offshore escrow agreement that would have liquidated sixty million dollars from the legitimate real estate trust the moment my fake death certificate cleared probate."
Vincent didn't flinch. The numbers meant nothing to him now. "And Lorenzo?"
"Lorenzo had sixty men stationed around the northern perimeter, ready to eliminate your loyal captains the second the news broke. He promised them a twenty-percent bump in territory revenue once Camila signed over the corporate assets."
Vincent turned slowly, walking toward the heavy metal door.
Inside the holding room, Lorenzo saw Vincent enter and immediately began babbling, mucus and tears running down his face. "Boss! Vincent! Look at me! I gave you fifteen years! I took a bullet for you in Brooklyn! Don't let them kill me! I’ll sign whatever you want! I’ll give up the Romanos! I’ll testify against Don Carmine himself!"
Vincent pulled out a wooden chair, turned it around, and sat down facing his former underboss.
"You didn't take a bullet for me in Brooklyn, Lorenzo," Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "You took a bullet because you were standing behind me while I handled the hitmen. I paid your hospital bills. I bought your mother her house in Boca. I put your children through private school in New England."
"I know! I'm grateful, Vincent! I lost my mind! She seduced me!" Lorenzo pointed a shaking finger at Camila, who flinched and pulled her knees to her chest. "She got inside my head! She said you were slipping, that you were going soft because of the legal reforms!"
"I wasn't going soft, Lorenzo," Vincent said, leaning forward. "I was getting clean. I was moving our operations into legitimate logistics and real estate so your children wouldn't have to carry guns to work every day. But you couldn't see past your own greed."
Vincent reached into his coat pocket and tossed a thick manila folder onto the small metal table between them.
Inside were hundreds of pages of bank records, phone taps, and encrypted texts.
"The Federal Bureau of Investigation has been monitoring your private offshore accounts for nine months, Lorenzo," Vincent explained, watching the man's eyes widen in sheer horror. "Every dollar you skimmed from the docks, every bribe you paid to port authorities, every text message between you and Viktor. I didn't need to put a bullet in your head to end your life. I just needed to let you hang yourself with your own rope."
"Federal... you're working with the feds?!" Lorenzo shrieked, his voice cracking into hysteria. "You broke the code! You're Vincent Costa! You don't hand your own people over to the government!"
"My people don't hire assassins to put a bullet through my pillow while I lie helpless in a medical bed," Vincent stated, rising to his feet. "You're not family, Lorenzo. You're a cancer. And cancers get excised."
Vincent turned toward Camila.
The woman raised her chin, attempting to summon one last pathetic shred of defiance. "And what about me, Vincent? Are you going to send your thugs to throw me in the river? You think that makes you a big man?"
Vincent looked down at her, his expression carrying no anger, no hatred—only the absolute, crushing indifference one might show toward a discarded piece of trash on a sidewalk.
"Throw you in the river?" Vincent let out a dry, quiet chuckle. "Camila, you think far too highly of your own importance. Killing you would make you a martyr in your social circles. It would make people whisper that Vincent Costa was a savage who couldn't handle rejection."
He bent down, looking straight into her tear-streaked eyes.
"You're being charged as an unindicted co-conspirator in a federal RICO indictment for attempted murder, wire fraud, and grand larceny," Vincent whispered. "Your family's trust fund has already been frozen under an emergency civil asset forfeiture warrant. By tomorrow afternoon, the bank will seize your penthouse on Fifth Avenue. Your country club membership has been revoked. Every designer store in this city will decline your black card."
Camila’s mouth fell open, her face draining of whatever life was left.
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"You took three years of my life pretending to love me for my money," Vincent concluded, stepping back toward the door. "So I’m going to make sure you spend the next thirty years penniless, friendless, and rotting in a federal penitentiary in West Virginia. That is your payout, Camila."
With a loud clank of the steel deadbolts, Vincent walked out of the room, leaving the screams and sobs of the two traitors trapped behind three feet of reinforced concrete.
