Chapter 5 - The Red Line
At eight-fifteen in the morning, Vincent was standing on the back terrace of the estate, reviewing shipping manifests on an encrypted tablet while Camila pruned an indoor potted gardenia in the adjoining sunroom.
The kitchen phone rang. Three seconds later, Paulie came sprinting through the glass French doors, his phone pressed to his ear, his face pale as chalk.
"Boss," Paulie said, his voice shaking.
Vincent looked up. "What is it?"
"The Queens car," Paulie said, his breath hitching. "Frank got to her building five minutes late because a delivery truck blocked the avenue. He found her thermos shattered on the front steps. Fresh coffee everywhere. A pool of blood on the concrete... and this."
Paulie held up his tablet, showing a photo sent from Frank's phone.
Lying in the center of the brown puddle on the sidewalk was a torn paper bag containing crushed almond biscotti, pinned to the stoop by a six-inch Chicago butcher knife through the paper.
Vincent didn't move. He didn't drop his tablet.
Every muscle in his body turned to stone. The world around him went dead, flat, and soundless, save for the dull, heavy thud of his own heart beating a funeral drum inside his chest.
"Camila," Vincent said, his voice unnaturally calm as he turned toward the sunroom.
His mother looked up, holding a pair of brass shears, smiling innocently. "Yes, darling?"
"Stay inside with Mrs. Gable. I have some business to attend to."
"Will Nora be here soon?" Camila asked, tilting her head. "She promised we would bake lemon cookies today."
Vincent looked at his mother’s gentle, frail face—a woman who had finally found peace after two decades of terror, all because a stubborn, bandaged girl from Queens had refused to let her drown.
"Yes, Ma," Vincent whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "She'll be here."
He turned back to Paulie. His eyes were no longer gray; they were the color of lead, burning with a lethal, terrifying heat.
"Call the family," Vincent said.
Paulie swallowed hard. "Which capos, boss?"
"All of them," Vincent said, walking past him into the grand foyer, his coat billowing like a storm cloud. "Tell the Bronx to bring the heavies. Tell the Brooklyn crews to lock down every bridge, every tunnel, and every ferry terminal between Manhattan and Jersey. If a single rat tries to leave this city, put them in the river."
"Boss, the Commission—"
“Fuck the Commission!” Vincent roared, the sound echoing off the vaulted marble ceiling with the force of an explosion. Several maids dropped their dusters in terror. "Carmine Gallow took someone under my roof! He broke the sacred law of hospitality! He put his hands on my household!"
He marched into his private armory behind the library, slamming his palm against the biometric scanner.
The steel vault door hissed open, revealing rows of black tactical gear, assault rifles, and customized sidearms. Vincent reached past the handguns and pulled down a customized Benelli M4 tactical shotgun and two matte-black Sig Sauer handguns.
"Track the Lincoln," Vincent commanded, slapping a fresh magazine into his sidearm with a sharp, mechanical snap.
"We already got a ping," Paulie said, checking his phone. "Frank pulled the traffic camera footage from Queens Boulevard. The car crossed into Greenpoint twenty minutes ago. They’re holed up in the old Gallow chemical processing plant off Newtown Creek."
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Vincent racked the slide of the shotgun.
"Get the cars," he said, walking out into the rain. "Today, Chicago learns what happens when you step onto my soil."
