Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Back Room
The basement office beneath Castellano’s Diner smelled of roasting coffee beans, old paper, and damp limestone. It was windowless, lit only by a single green-shaded banker’s lamp sitting on a heavy oak desk that had belonged to Vincent’s grandfather.
Derek Lawson sat tied to a wooden chair, his leather jacket scuffed, his mouth tasting of copper and fear. His hands were bound behind him with industrial zip-ties that cut into his wrists.
The heavy steel door swung open, and Vincent stepped inside, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. He pulled up a straight-backed wooden chair, sat down backward with his arms crossed over the top rail, and stared at Derek in the dim light.
“Do you know why I don't kill people often, Derek?” Vincent asked casually, pulling a small silver pocketknife from his trousers and flicking open the blade.
Derek shook his head frantically, tears of panic finally spilling over his eyelids. “Please, Mr. Castellano—I’m sorry! I was drunk, I didn't know she was under your protection, I swear to God—”
“Stop invoking God in a basement where the floorboards are soaked in old blood,” Vincent admonished gently. “It’s bad form. The reason I don't kill people often is because it’s messy. It draws federal attention, it upsets the sanitation department, and it’s terribly final. But every once in a while, someone comes along who misunderstands the ecosystem entirely.”
Vincent began paring his fingernails with the tip of the small blade, his eyes never leaving Derek’s face.
“You thought you were a big man tonight because you walked into a diner and threw a punch at a girl holding a coffee pot. But you didn't ask the most important question before you raised your hand, did you?”
Derek swallowed hard, his breath hitching. “What... what question?”
“You didn't ask who brought her here,” Vincent said softly.
Derek stared at him, confused. “You said she came off a bus from Albany—”
“She did,” Vincent interrupted. “And do you know who picked her up at the station? Who handed her the keys to the studio apartment above the bakery? Who personally vetted her background and made sure Raymond Fletcher never came within fifty miles of city limits?”
The name hung in the damp air like a death sentence. Raymond Fletcher. The corrupt detective from Troy who had terrorized Amelia for two agonizing years before she finally managed to steal his spare car keys and flee into the snowy night.
“Raymond... Raymond is her ex,” Derek stammered, his brain racing to connect the dots. “Wait. You know Raymond?”
“Raymond Fletcher,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a register so cold it made Derek’s teeth chatter, “is currently serving twelve consecutive life sentences in a maximum-security federal penitentiary in Florence, Colorado. Do you know how he got there, Derek?”
Derek shook his head frantically.
“I put him there,” Vincent said simply. “Not because he was dirty—plenty of cops are dirty. I put him there because he broke a cardinal rule of mine: he hunted a deer on my land without permission. Amelia was that deer. When she crossed the threshold of my diner three years ago, she wasn't just an employee looking for a paycheck. She was a survivor of a monster that I personally dismantled piece by piece.”
Vincent closed the pocketknife with a sharp click that echoed like a gunshot in the small room.
“And you,” Vincent whispered, standing up slowly, “decided to finish what Raymond started. In my house. Under my roof.”
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Derek let out a ragged sob, pulling against the zip-ties until his skin bled. “I’ll leave town! I swear to God, I’ll pack my bags tonight, I’ll go to California, you’ll never see me again—”
“Oh, you’re leaving town, all right,” Vincent said, walking toward the heavy steel door. “But first, we’re going to have a little chat about where you got that two thousand dollars in your pocket. Because my sources tell me you didn't earn that working construction. You earned it by skimming protection money from the docks—money that belongs to my ledger.”
