Chapter 4 - THE ARCHITECTURE OF A FRAME-UP
Dominic’s hands remained flat on the table, but the veins along his forearms bulged against the dark fabric of his sleeves.
“I loved your father like a brother of my own blood,” Dominic said, every word dragged out of his chest like jagged stone.
“I gave him the keys to every vault I owned.”
“I gave him the power to sign my name on documents that could have sent me to federal prison for three lifetimes.”
“When he was pulled from that river, half of my soul went into the mud with him.”
“Why would you believe I would butcher the only man I trusted in this city?”
Clara reached into her black apron for the third time.
This time, she did not withdraw a device or a pair of glasses.
She pulled out a small, leather-bound ledger with water-stained edges and warped cardboard covers.
The leather was scarred by damp salt and dried mud, preserved carefully inside a sealed plastic sleeve.
She laid it directly between Dominic’s hands.
Dominic’s breathing turned shallow as his fingers touched the scarred plastic.
He recognized the small, meticulous handwriting visible through the cover.
It was Matteo’s distinct bookkeeping script—compact, angular, and impossible to duplicate.
“The night my father was executed, he knew he wasn’t coming home,” Clara said, her voice dropping into an intense, measured whisper.
“He came into my bedroom at three in the morning, soaking wet from the rain.”
“He handed me this book and three hundred dollars in cash.”
“He told me to take my mother to a motel in Pennsylvania and never use our family name again.”
“He said the empire was rotting from the inside, and the infection was sleeping in your bed.”
Dominic’s gaze snapped from the notebook to Isabella.
Isabella was cowering in the corner of the booth, her trembling hands trying desperately to cover her ears.
“No, no, that book is a forgery,” Isabella whimpered, her voice cracking into madness.
“Matteo was a thief, Dominic.”
“You saw the bank transfers yourself eight years ago.”
“You saw his signature on the offshore routing orders.”
Clara leaned across the table, pointing a steady finger directly at the open page beneath Dominic’s eyes.
“Look at the transaction dates, Dominic,” Clara commanded.
Dominic opened the plastic sleeve with shaking fingers and turned to the marked page.
The ink was faded, but the numbers were sharp and unyielding.
Forty million dollars had indeed left the family vault in October of that fatal year.
However, it had not been wired to the Caribbean shell companies that Dominic’s enforcers had traced to Matteo’s name.
It had been routed through three intermediary corporate accounts registered to a holding firm named Bellini Enterprises.
Dominic’s jaw clamped shut with such force that a small muscle beneath his ear twitched violently.
Bellini was Isabella’s maiden name.
The funds that Dominic believed Matteo had stolen had been funneled straight into her family’s private banks in Genoa before Matteo’s car had even hit the water.
“Matteo discovered the discrepancy on October fourteenth,” Clara explained, her eyes burning into Dominic’s face.
“He realized your wife’s family had been bleeding the Salvatore freight contracts for two solid years.”
“He scheduled a private meeting with you at the warehouse on Pier nine to present the proof.”
“He called your private landline at the penthouse at six that evening.”
Dominic’s throat felt as dry as desert bone.
“I wasn’t at the penthouse that night,” Dominic said, the realization hitting him like a wall of freezing water.
“I was in Chicago settling a dispute with the teamsters union.”
“I didn’t get back until the following morning.”
Clara’s gaze turned back toward the trembling woman in red.
“You weren’t there,” Clara agreed.
“But Isabella was.”
“She answered that phone.”
“She told my father that you were waiting for him down at the pier with a private security escort.”
“When he arrived with the proof of her family's theft, your men weren't there to receive him.”
“Three assassins hired through her cousin’s firm in New Jersey were waiting in the shadows behind the crane.”
“They shot him in the head, forged his transfer authorization on the backup documents, and dumped his car into the harbor.”
Dominic slowly pushed himself up from his chair.
His massive frame seemed to expand in the dim dining room, casting a long, terrifying shadow over the remains of the meal.
He did not look at Clara.
He turned his body entirely toward his wife.
Isabella looked up at him, her chest heaving, the sheer terror of what was coming drying up her tears.
She saw nothing in Dominic’s face.
No sorrow.
No jealousy.
No outrage.
Only the absolute, terrifying void of an executioner who had just read the final decree.
“Eight years,” Dominic whispered, the sound vibrating the crystal glasses left on the nearby tables.
“Eight years I visited his grave at St. Michael’s every Sunday morning.”
“Eight years I asked myself what I did wrong to make my best friend betray me.”
“And every night, I came home and slept beside the monster who pulled the trigger.”
Isabella backed away until her spine struck the back wall of the booth.
“You were weak, Dominic,” she spat suddenly, her terror transforming into a cornered animal’s rage.
“Matteo was a common bookkeeper who thought he could control where the Bellini family took its share.”
“You think you rule this city with your guns and your concrete mixers?”
“You are an outdated thug, Dominic.”
“My father’s people are already taking your piers.”
“By midnight tonight, your empire is over anyway.”
Vincent stepped forward, showing Dominic the screen of his phone.
“Boss,” Vincent whispered, his scarred face grim.
“The tower ping on that burner message came from inside our own security dispatch at the Navy Yard.”
“Marco Viti is running the terminal tonight.”
May you like
Dominic’s eyes narrowed into slits of ice.
Marco Viti was his nephew.
