Chapter 6 - The Brother's Knife
Marco Romano.
The boy Victor had shared a bedroom with in the Catholic orphanage in Hell’s Kitchen. The boy Victor had protected from abusive priests and street gangs. When Victor took over the Bellini family, he made Marco the head of legitimate finances—the clean face of the Romano syndicate, managing real estate portfolios, offshore trusts, and hedge funds.
Marco was the quiet brother. The brother who wore bespoke Italian suits without a gun tucked into his belt.
*Marco.*
“Where is he?” Victor asked, his voice deadly quiet.
“Marco was supposed to meet me at the probate office tomorrow morning to witness the execution of Salvatore’s estate,” Arthur said. “Victor… if Marco has control of Mariposa, and if Elena died tonight…”
“The entire Bellini fortune, the legitimate trusts, and the family seat would default to Marco as the sole remaining executor,” Victor finished the sentence.
“Yes,” Arthur said grimly. “He wouldn't just take the wealth, Victor. Salvatore’s will contains the controlling shares of the shipping docks and the real estate trusts that legitimize your entire operation. Without those trusts, the Five Families will treat you like an outlaw dog. You’d have no backing, no money, and no legal protection.”
Victor terminated the call without another word.
He walked out of the office and took the private elevator down to the basement of the meatpacking club. The smell of raw iron and refrigeration hung thick in the damp air.
Dante was waiting outside the soundproof interrogation room. Through the heavy steel door, muffled groans could be heard.
“Frankie?” Victor asked.
“My boys picked him up trying to board a private jet at Teterboro,” Dante said, wiping blood from his knuckles with a white handkerchief. “He broke five minutes in. He wasn't working for the Russians, Boss.”
“I know,” Victor said, pushing the steel door open.
Frankie Vane was tied to a wooden chair under a single hanging halogen bulb, his face swollen and bruised. When Victor walked in, Frankie began to sob.
“Victor, please! I had to! He said he’d kill my kids!”
Victor pulled up a folding chair, set it directly in front of Frankie, and sat down. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Marco told you to wire the warehouse?” Victor asked calmly.
Frankie swallowed hard, his eyes wide with terror. “Yes! He promised me two million and a clean run to Costa Rica. He said you were getting weak, Victor! He said you were letting Elena’s family control everything, that you were just a puppet for the Bellinis! He told me that once you and Elena were gone, he would run the city the right way!”
“Once me and Elena were gone,” Victor repeated softly. “Who poisoned Elena, Frankie?”
“It wasn't me! I swear on my mother’s soul, it wasn't me!” Frankie cried out. “Marco hired someone else for that! A private nurse or a caterer—I don't know who! Marco said the poison had to happen at the exact same time as the bomb so nobody could coordinate a response! He wanted you both dead in one night!”
Victor nodded slowly. The logic was flawless. If Victor died in the blast, and Elena died of a sudden, tragic cardiac arrest at the penthouse, the underworld would assume a simultaneous, coordinated strike by an external rival. Marco would step forward as the grieving brother, rally the syndicate, inherit the entire Bellini-Romano fortune, and take the throne without firing a single shot in open war.
It was brilliant. Cold. Sociopathic.
And it had almost worked.
Except Victor hadn't gone to the warehouse. He had stayed with Selena.
And Elena hadn't died. She was fighting for her life in Room 14.
Victor stood up. He looked at Dante.
“Clean up this mess,” Victor said, pointing at Frankie.
“What about Marco?” Dante asked.
“Marco thinks the plan succeeded,” Victor replied, his eyes dark as midnight. “He thinks I’m dead in the rubble of Red Hook, and he thinks Elena is lying cold in the morgue. Let’s not disappoint him just yet.”
Victor pulled out his phone. He dialed Marco’s private number.
It rang three times.
“Victor?” Marco’s voice came through, thick with fabricated panic and manufactured tears. “Victor! Oh, thank God! Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you! The news is saying the warehouse in Red Hook blew up! I thought you were inside!”
Victor closed his eyes, listening to the man he had called his brother for thirty years perform like an Oscar-winning actor.
“I wasn't there, Marco,” Victor said, keeping his voice trembling, sounding broken, defeated, and weak. “I was with Elena.”
A microsecond of silence on the other end.
“Elena?” Marco’s voice tightened slightly. “Is she… is she okay?”
“She’s in the ICCU at Mercy Harbor,” Victor choked out, feigning total despair. “Her heart failed, Marco. The doctors say she won't make it through the morning. I’m losing her, Marco. I’m losing everything.”
“Oh, God… Victor, no,” Marco said, the relief in his tone thinly veiled behind a veneer of fake sorrow. “Stay right there. Don’t move. I’m coming to the hospital right now. We’ll face this together, brother.”
“Hurry,” Victor whispered. “I need you.”
Victor hung up. He looked at Dante.
May you like
“Tell our men at Mercy Harbor to clear the fifth floor,” Victor said, drawing his customized .45 from his shoulder holster and checking the slide. “My brother is coming to pay his respects.”
***
