Dominic
There was a certain smell that came with power – cigars, expensive leather, fear masked in cologne, and under it all, blood. You learn to recognize it when you aren't born into it.
Me? I had grown up in its shadow, learned to walk its edge with a blade in my hand before I ever wore a suit.
That night, standing on the corner of Lincoln and 87th, where the air still carried the scent of roasted beans and fresh paint from overpriced cafes, I smelled something else beneath it.
Gasoline.
Burnt wood.
Smoke.
A block away, our latest venture – a ritzy cocktail lounge hidden behind a vegan bookstore – was burning. A slow, smoldering message from the DiSanto family.
They were getting nervous.
Good.
The gentrified stretch of East Greystone hadn't always been worth a damn. It used to be hookers and boarded windows. Then the city decided to "revitalize" it. The Moretti name wasn't anywhere on the books, but we had bought in before the prices soared. Don Moretti used shell companies and silent partnerships – a ballet of clean money stepping over old blood. By the time the ink dried on zoning deals, we had our fingers in everything – real estate, security, liquor licenses. And "protection," of course.
That was what pissed the DiSantos off. They had things lined up – backdoor deals, construction kickbacks, a couple of crooked city council members they were grooming like prize pigs. They thought they'd waltz in and plant their flag. But the Don beat them to it. Quietly, effectively. Like he always did.
He didn't speak much. Not to most people. But I had watched him my whole life – he spoke in decisions, not words.
I was raised on the streets. He found me when I was 12, and then he raised me. Not the way he raised Leonardo and Rocco – he didn't have to. They had his blood, his name. I had to earn my place. And I did. With my fists, with my silence, with the lives I took to keep his family safe. But even then, I was just the sword. Never the hand that wielded it.
Not officially.
Not until her.
Gianna.
His niece. His heart, whether he admitted it or not. She was the only softness in that man's world, the only time his voice ever dropped to something resembling warmth. Maybe that was why the idea of marrying her made my chest tighten – not with dread, but something worse.
Desire.
But her cousins? They were seeing it differently.
Leonardo Moretti, Salvatore's eldest son, handled the "legit" Moretti businesses, and courted city officials. He was all polished smiles and Italian loafers. He saw Gianna as the Don's freeloader – and me as the dagger that might get too close. He was subtle about it. Left whispers behind like fingerprints on crystal: Dominic's too violent. Too unhinged. The world's changing – we need businessmen, not butchers.
Rocco, Sal's second son, was easier. A drunk with a temper and something to prove. He ran the clubs like they were high school popularity contests, flinging coke and pussy around like party favors. Every time he looked at me, I saw it – the deep itch of inadequacy. He tried to bait me, test me. But I didn't rise to it.
Not until they came for Gianna.
We were at dinner last week. The Don's private table at Bella Luce, tucked away behind velvet curtains and a thousand-dollar bottle of Amarone. Gianna wore navy blue, her curls pinned up, laughter like honey poured over stone. She was radiant. She always was. But when she stood, Rocco leaned toward Leo and muttered, just loud enough for me to hear:
"Wonder how much fabric it took to sew that dress."
Leonardo smirked, swirling his wine. "Probably half the store."
I didn't say anything right away.
Just set my glass down.
Then I leaned in, voice low, quiet enough that only they could hear.
"She must hate you," I said, "I wonder if I should woo her by cutting out your tongues and feeding them to the dogs behind Rocco's club. You know – the ones that go missing when his bouncers fuck up. I think they're still hungry. That should make her want me, right?"
Silence. Thick. Heavy.
Leonardo's smirk cracked. Rocco looked away.
Gianna didn't hear. The Don did.
He didn't scold me.
Didn't say a word.
Just poured another drink.
Which was why, when the fire started tonight, it wasn't Leonardo or Rocco who got the call to control the situation.
It was me.
Always me.
I slid into the alley behind the burning building. My man inside the DA's office had been quiet lately – either Ortega was building something off-paper or he'd gone cold. I made a mental note to have Pietro squeeze him after this was handled.
My guys – Matteo and Luis – were already in the alley, coughing into their sleeves, eyes red.
"Arson," Matteo said, squinting through the smoke. "Started in the storage room. Someone knew what they were doing."
I crouched, ran my fingers over the soot-covered concrete. There was glass nearby – smashed vodka bottles, scorched. Accelerant.
A signature.
DiSantos.
Cowards with matches.
"This was a message," Luis said.
I nodded.
"So, let's answer it."
By the time I made it back to the Moretti Manor, my jacket smelled like smoke and gasoline. The Don called it the lion's den – four stories of old-money stone and modern steel, tucked into the hills like it had grown out of the bedrock. The city lights blinked below us, unaware that their fate was carved here, in shadows and whispered orders.
Inside, the air was clean. Cold. Sanitized. Everything the street wasn't.
Rocco was already at the bar in the den, pouring himself a drink like he'd fought the fire with his bare hands. Leonardo perched in one of the leather chairs, thumbing through his phone like he was too busy for all of this.
The Don stood by the hearth, hands behind his back. He didn't turn when I entered.
"Where?" he asked.
"Storage room. No security breach, so they had a key or someone inside. Matteo's checking the employee logs." I stepped farther in and tossed my scorched jacket onto a chair. "Molotovs, accelerant. DiSantos wanted us to know it was them."
Leonardo didn't look up. "Maybe it wasn't."
"Maybe you're an idiot," I snapped. "Their signature was all over it."
Finally, he lifted his eyes. Cool. Calm. Calculated. "We don't make decisions based on hunches and smoke trails. That's how you start wars you can't finish."
Rocco chuckled into his glass. "He'd love that, though. One excuse to break a few skulls and he's hard as stone."
I looked at him. Really looked at him.
Unbuttoned silk shirt, too much cologne, pinky ring flashing like he earned it.
"While you were playing bottle service king, I was dragging Matteo out of a fire. If I'd waited for either of you to act, we'd be rebuilding ashes."
"That's not your call," Leonardo said. He stood now, smooth as a blade. "You're not the consigliere. You're not blood. You're not—"
"Enough." The Don's voice cut through the room like a cleaver.
Silence swelled.
He turned finally, face carved from stone. Eyes hard. Unreadable.
"You have a report?"
I nodded. "It's contained. Damage localized. Club's unsalvageable, but no casualties. DiSantos meant it as a warning."
"Then we'll answer it quietly," he said. "No escalation. Not yet."
Rocco scoffed. "Quiet doesn't work on savages."
I stepped toward him before I could stop myself. "Funny, coming from someone who lets dealers use the back of his clubs like a goddamn pharmacy. That fire was meant for you. But I'm the one who cleaned it up."
"You got a problem with how I run my territory?" he asked, smiling wide now, like it was a goading game. "Maybe you want it instead?"
"I don't want your sloppy seconds," I said, stepping closer. "I want you to remember what happens when the Don sends me instead of you."
His smile faded. Not all the way. But enough.
Leonardo watched it all with a hawk's patience, always storing ammunition for another day. "You're making enemies inside, Dominic. That's a dangerous position for someone without a name."
"I have his," I said. And I looked at the Don when I said it. "That's enough."
The silence after was louder than any gunshot.
Then I heard the sound of shoes. Soft. Deliberate.
"Dominic?"
Gianna's voice carried like a bell in a cathedral – gentle, clear, untouched by the ash of everything we did.
She appeared in the doorway, curls falling loose from a messy ponytail, a hoodie zipped halfway over a sundress she probably pulled on without thinking. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing quick.
"I heard – someone told me – there was a fire. I thought…" Her eyes found mine. "I thought you were inside."
I went still. The room did too, like the sound of her voice broke something none of us wanted to admit was fragile.
"I'm fine," I said, my voice softer than I intended. "It's over."
She stepped closer, visibly shaken. "No one told me. I heard it from Maria, down in the kitchen."
The Don's jaw tightened.
Leonardo cleared his throat. "Gianna, this really isn't the place for – "
"No one asked you," I snapped.
She put a hand on my arm. I realized then – I was still covered in soot. My knuckles were scraped. I must've looked like a nightmare.
But she didn't flinch.
"I got worried," she whispered.
I nodded slowly. "You don't have to be."
"That's not how worry works."
Behind me, Rocco snorted. "Jesus. How dramatic."
Leonardo joined in, voice silky as ever. "Don't blame her, Dominic. She's not built for this. She's soft. Sensitive."
"Too soft," Rocco muttered. "And too much of her, if we're being honest."
I turned slowly.
Leonardo tried to stop him with a glance, but it was too late. Rocco grinned like he'd said something clever, like he didn't feel the storm shift in the room.
"She should wear darker colors," he added, taking another sip. "Slimming. You know."
Gianna stiffened. She didn't respond.
She didn't need to.
Because I did.
I crossed the room in three strides and slammed Rocco into the wall. His glass shattered. Bourbon and blood hit the floor together.
"I warned you," I hissed, "You talk about her like that, I'll carve your future out with a steak knife and make Leonardo watch."
He thrashed, red-faced, but I pressed harder, my forearm across his throat.
Leonardo shouted. "Dominic –!"
"Stay out of it," I barked. "You protect him, you deal with what happens next."
Rocco gasped. "She's not even yours yet."
I pressed harder.
Behind me, the Don didn't stop me. He let me hold Rocco there a second longer.
Then he spoke.
"Dominic."
One word. That was all it took.
I let go.
Rocco wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, shaking, not moving.
"Bloody gutter trash," he muttered, barely audible.
I didn't reply.
Gianna stepped in front of me. She was shivering, looking visibly pale. Her hand touched my chest.
"Come with me. Please."
I let her lead me out of the room.
Behind us, silence settled again.