Chapter 2 - The Anatomy of a Warning
By Friday morning, the city of New York was operating under its usual cynical, hurried rhythm, completely unaware that a tectonic plate had shifted beneath its feet. While commuters jammed the subway lines and brokers screamed across the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, the basement level of my Hell’s Kitchen safehouse was dead silent.
Viktor Kolov’s primary enforcer—a bulky Russian named Yuri with a thick neck and a permanent scowl—was tied securely to a heavy steel chair.
I sat across from him on a leather stool, calmly cleaning the blade of a folding hunting knife with a white linen handkerchief. Marco stood by the door, his arms crossed, watching Yuri sweat under the harsh glare of a single overhead bulb.
"I'm going to ask you once, Yuri," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, forcing the Russian to strain to hear me over the hum of the fluorescent light. "Where is Viktor?"
Yuri spat a mixture of blood and saliva onto the concrete floor. He tried to puff out his chest, leaning against the restraints. "You can't touch us, Castellano. The Bratva controls the docks. We answer to higher people than a washed-up Italian mobster who spends his days hiding behind maids and chandeliers."
I didn't yell. I didn't slam my fist on a table. I simply stopped cleaning the knife, looked up, and met Yuri's defiant gaze.
"You hurt a nineteen-year-old girl who works three jobs to pay for her brother’s prosthetic legs," I said evenly. "You beat her into a brick wall because she wore a polo shirt with my family crest on it. And then you had the staggering idiocy to leave her alive so she could crawl back to my gates and deliver your little message."
I stood up, walking slowly toward him.
"That wasn't a warning, Yuri. That was an invitation to a funeral."
With a sudden, blur-fast motion, I drove the tip of the knife into the wooden armrest of his chair, exactly one millimeter away from his index finger. Yuri flinched violently, all the bravado draining from his face as he stared down at the steel blade vibrating inches from his flesh.
"Viktor is at the shipping warehouse on Pier 42," Yuri choked out, his voice cracking. "Tonight! He’s meeting with the Baltic suppliers at midnight! That’s all I know, I swear to God!"
I pulled the knife free with a soft schwing and folded it neatly into my pocket.
"Marco," I said, turning away. "Break his other arm so he remembers not to lie about meeting times, and then lock him in the container yard. We have an appointment at midnight."
As I walked out of the basement into the cool morning air, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Lucia calling from the hospital.
"Dominic," she answered immediately, her voice trembling slightly. "Emma just woke up. The surgery went well, but... she’s terrified. She keeps asking how much she owes us for the medical bills, and she's crying because she thinks she's fired for missing her shift."
I paused by the open door of my black sedan, looking up at the gray Manhattan sky.
"Tell her she’s not fired," I instructed. "Tell her her salary has been doubled, effective immediately, and all medical expenses are covered by the Castellano Foundation. And Lucia? Make sure there are two armed guards outside her hospital room door twenty-four hours a day. Nobody gets near her."
May you like
"You're going after them, aren't you?" Lucia asked softly.
"They touched what belongs to my house," I replied. "In this city, Lucia, you either rule the board or you get swept off it. Kolov is about to learn the difference."
