Chapter 4 - Blood in the Basement
The subterranean inventory rooms of the Manhattan high-rise were cavernous, concrete-floored, and lit by harsh fluorescent tubes that buzzed with a low, irritating hum. Paulie Russo was sitting at a metal folding table, stacking crates of imported liquor, when the heavy steel fire door slammed shut behind him with an echo that rattled the shelves.
Paulie turned around, wiping his hands on a rag, ready to curse out whoever had interrupted him. The curse died in his throat when he saw Dante Valenti walking toward him. Dante wasn't running. He wasn't yelling. He just walked with that dreadful, predatory stillness that made strong men drop to their knees.
“Boss,” Paulie stammered, forcing an uneasy, oily smile. “Didn’t expect you down in the holes tonight. Everything with the shipments running smooth?”
Dante stopped three feet away. He pulled the folded crayon drawing out of his jacket pocket, smoothed it out on top of a crate of whiskey, and turned it toward Paulie.
Paulie glanced at the crude black-and-red drawing. Confusion flickered across his face. “What’s this supposed to be?”
“A portrait,” Dante said, his voice flat and devoid of human warmth. “A five-year-old artist drew it. She told me the man in the picture has a red hurt right under his chin.”
Paulie’s hand twitched toward his waistband, his eyes darting frantically toward the exit corridor. “Boss, I don’t know what some kid—argh!”
Before Paulie could clear his holster, Dante closed the distance, grabbing Paulie by the throat with one hand and slamming him backward against the concrete wall with enough force to crack the drywall. The whiskey crates rattled. Paulie clawed desperately at Dante’s wrist, gasping for air as his face turned a deep, bruised purple.
“You stepped foot in my residence,” Dante whispered, leaning in so close their noses almost touched. “You threatened a woman under my roof. And you terrified a little girl who thinks I’m strong enough to protect her.”
“Boss... please... mercy...” Paulie choked out, his legs kicking weakly against the floor.
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“Mercy is something you ask for from people who care about rules,” Dante replied coldly. “You broke the fundamental rule of this house: you brought your filth inside my walls.”
When Julian Carver finally stepped into the basement two minutes later, Paulie Russo was no longer a threat, and the concrete floor was stained with retribution. Dante adjusted his cuffs, looked down at the ruined crayon drawing on the crate, and walked away without looking back.
