Chapter 2 - Blood on the Linoleum
Within twenty minutes, the restaurant had emptied of all civilian life. The chef and dishwasher had been quietly escorted out the back alley by Dominic’s remaining security detail—two silent, thick-necked men who had materialized from the shadows the moment the shooting stopped.
The front windows of Bellini’s were shuttered, the “CLOSED” sign flipped around, and the scarred hitman—whose name, they learned after a swift, painful persuasion by Dominic’s enforcer, was Frankie—was tied securely to a heavy wooden chair in the walk-in cooler.
Inside the dining room, the atmosphere was surreal. Dominic sat at an unbroken table near the kitchen, pouring two glasses of the very same Barolo Nora had used as a projectile. He pushed one glass across the mahogany surface toward her.
Nora remained standing, her arms crossed over her chest, leaning against the doorframe. She hadn’t washed the blood off her hands yet.
“You’re wasting good wine,” Nora said flatly. “I’m on the clock.”
“The restaurant is closed, Miss Vance,” Dominic replied, swirling the deep red liquid in his glass before taking a slow sip. He looked her up and down, noting the frayed apron, the cheap sneakers, and the fierce, unyielding posture of a soldier masquerading as a waitress. “Or should I call you Captain Vance? Or perhaps Evelyn? The military records say Evelyn Vance vanished off the grid six years ago after a black-ops supply line was ambushed in the Zagros Mountains. Twenty-two dead. Only one survivor reported missing.”
Nora didn’t flinch. She had expected him to dig. A man who ran half of Pennsylvania didn't stay alive by ignoring ghosts that walked into his kitchen.
“I’m Nora,” she said coldly. “Nora Vance is the girl who pours your chianti and listens to you complain about the city council. The rest of that is dead.”
“People like us don’t get to die just because we stop breathing, Captain,” Dominic said softly, leaning back in his chair. He crossed one leg over the other, the silver cuff links on his bespoke shirt catching the dim amber light of the emergency lamps. “You’re hunting the ghost who sold your team out. And Cal Vale—my dear, troublesome business partner—happens to employ the very same network of dirty brokers who cleared the path for your ambush.”
Nora’s eyes narrowed. “You know about the betrayal?”
“I know everything that moves through this city,” Dominic said smoothly. “Including the fact that Cal Vale has been trying to usurp my shipping lanes by cutting deals with federal black-market brokers. Brokers who use military encryption protocols. Protocols that were stolen from your unit.”
He set his glass down and stood up, walking toward her with a measured, deliberate pace. He was taller than her by nearly a half-foot, imposing and heavy with authority, yet there was an unexpected respect in the way he looked at her.
“You thought you were alone in this hunt, didn't you?” Dominic asked, stopping just a foot away. He smelled of cedar, high-end bourbon, and quiet danger. “You thought you’d hide out in a South Philly trattoria for a year, saving pennies and sharpening a combat knife, waiting for a chance to take out Vale’s lieutenants one by one.”
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“It was working,” Nora shot back.
“It was a slow suicide,” Dominic corrected gently. “Cal Vale has an army. You have an apron and a corkscrew. But together?” A slow, sharp smile curved the corner of his mouth. “Together, we could burn his entire empire to ash before the sun comes up.”
