Chapter 2 - SHUTTERS DOWN, SECRETS BARE
The quiet that followed Dominic’s question was thicker than the cigar smoke drifting above the mahogany rafters.
The waitress did not answer immediately.
She reached into her apron pocket, withdrew a pair of silver-framed reading glasses, and set them deliberately beside Dominic’s untouched steak.
“Clear the floor, Mr. Salvatore,” she said quietly.
“Unless you want the Deputy Police Commissioner at table twelve to learn who has been draining your port authority payrolls.”
Dominic did not blink.
He glanced sideways at Vincent Rizzo.
Vincent nodded once, turned on his heel, and gestured toward the perimeter security team.
Within forty seconds, the private alcoves were cleared with military precision.
Wealthy patrons who had paid thousands for their reservations were ushered toward the private exit elevators without their coats.
The heavy velvet draperies were pulled across the street-facing windows, shutting out the wet neon glow of Central Park South.
The iron security shutters behind the front doors groaned as they slid into their floor locks with three heavy clanks.
L’Oasis had ceased being a luxury restaurant.
It had become a fortress, and inside its main hall, only five people remained.
Dominic, Isabella, the waitress, Vincent Rizzo, and two guards stationed at the kitchen threshold.
Dominic leaned back into his banquette, resting his elbows on the polished arms of his chair.
“You have five minutes to justify why your blood isn’t on this carpet,” Dominic said, his tone devoid of anger, which made it infinitely more dangerous.
Isabella gripped his forearm, her manicured nails digging into his cashmere sleeve.
“Dominic, darling, she is an extortionist planted by the Moretti loyalists or the Castiglione family,” Isabella pleaded, her voice trembling with theatrical outrage.
“Look at her clothes, look at her hands.”
“She probably overheard kitchen gossip or stole discarded paperwork from the manager’s wastebasket.”
The waitress pulled a chair out from an adjacent table, turned it around, and sat down directly across from the Salvatore couple.
The casual disrespect of the gesture made Vincent’s jaw twitch, but Dominic’s raised hand kept him frozen in place.
“Kitchen gossip does not include the private encryption keys to the Banco San Marco branch in Lugano, Isabella,” the waitress said.
She pulled a sleek black thumb drive from her pocket and spun it gently across the white linen.
It rolled to a stop against the base of Dominic’s whiskey glass.
“On that drive are three hundred pages of forensic transaction analysis,” she continued.
“Every invoice you fabricated for nonexistent shipyard renovations in New Jersey is logged with corresponding IP addresses.”
“Every payment went directly into a secondary account registered to an entity named La Sirena.”
Dominic’s fingers closed slowly around the thumb drive.
He did not look down at the device.
His eyes remained fixed on Isabella, whose chest was heaving beneath her silk gown.
“La Sirena,” Dominic repeated, the words tasting like poison on his tongue.
“That was your mother’s nickname in Naples, wasn't it, Isabella?”
Isabella swallowed hard, her mouth opening and closing without producing a sound.
“She has forged documents, Dominic,” Isabella finally whispered, though the strength had entirely drained from her voice.
“You know how many enemies want to tear down what you’ve built.”
“They are using this girl to drive a wedge between us before the dock concessions vote on Friday.”
The waitress shook her head slowly, a look of profound pity crossing her youthful face.
“The dock concessions vote is irrelevant, Isabella,” the waitress said.
“You don’t care about Friday because you don’t intend to be in North America by sunrise on Thursday.”
Dominic’s head tilted slightly.
“Go on,” he commanded the girl.
“The charter flight is registered out of Teterboro Airport,” the waitress said without consulting a single note.
“A Gulfstream G550, tail number November-seven-eight-four-delta.”
“Flight plan filed for Lisbon with an eventual routing toward Tangier.”
“Two cargo containers packed with antique jewelry, gold bearer bonds, and Dominic’s personal offshore logbooks were loaded into a freight warehouse in Newark three hours ago.”
Dominic turned his head toward his wife with agonizing slowness.
The diamond necklace at Isabella’s throat seemed to choke her as she shrank back into the corner of the banquette.
“Is this true, Bella?” Dominic asked, his voice softening to an eerie, intimate whisper.
“She is a liar,” Isabella screamed, her composure entirely shattering as she lunged across the table toward the waitress.
Vincent moved with shocking speed, his heavy hand catching Isabella’s wrist before she could touch the girl.
“Sit down, Mrs. Salvatore,” Vincent said, his voice flat and devoid of the deference he had shown her for five years.
The waitress did not even flinch at the attempted assault.
She simply looked at the designer handbag sitting on the empty chair beside Isabella.
“Check the seam behind the interior vanity mirror,” the waitress said.
Dominic nodded toward Vincent.
Vincent released Isabella’s arm, reached down, and picked up the thirty-thousand-dollar crocodile leather purse.
Isabella shrieked, clawing at Vincent’s suit, but the enforcer turned his back to her and unzipped the main compartment.
His thick fingers felt along the inner lining until a sharp ripping sound echoed through the silent dining room.
From the torn velvet fabric, Vincent pulled a slim, black burner phone and a dark blue passport.
He laid both items directly before Dominic Salvatore.
Dominic looked down at the passport.
The photograph inside showed Isabella with darkened hair and no makeup, stamped with an official seal under the alias Elena Costa.
May you like
The silence that settled over the table was not merely cold.
It was the silence of an execution chamber before the switch is thrown.
