Chapter 3 - The Broken Promise
The rain had started falling over New York by the time the black sedan pulled up to Grand Street.
The streets of Little Italy were slick with water, reflecting the neon signs of bakeries and cafes.
Ada sat in the back seat between Vincent and me.
She looked out the window with wide, anxious eyes.
“Vincent, the store is closed at this hour,” Ada said gently. “Mr. Moretti closes at six sharp.”
“He will open for us,” Vincent replied calmly.
The car stopped outside Moretti Fine Jewelry & Antiques.
The iron security grate was pulled down over the front windows.
Inside, a single amber light glowed in the back.
Vincent stepped out into the rain without opening an umbrella.
Marco followed, stepping up to the metal gate and knocking three times in a distinct, rhythmic pattern.
A minute passed.
Then, the inner glass door unlocked.
An elderly man with thick glasses and a gray mustache peered through the iron bars.
When he recognized Vincent Romano’s face, his eyes widened and his hands began to tremble.
He fumbled with a ring of heavy brass keys.
The iron gate rattled as he unlocked the padlocks and rolled it upward.
“Don Vincent,” Mr. Moretti stammered, bowing his head slightly. “I... I didn't expect you. If I knew you were coming, I would have stayed open.”
“Good evening, Moretti,” Vincent said, stepping inside out of the rain.
He gestured for Ada and me to enter, while Marco stayed by the door, watching the street.
The shop smelled of old velvet, polished metal, and pipe tobacco.
Glass display cases were lined with vintage watches, gold chains, and estate jewelry.
“What can I do for you, Don Vincent?” Moretti asked nervously, wiping his hands on his jeweler’s apron.
Vincent placed his hands on the glass counter.
“Two weeks ago, Ada Ferri came into your shop.”
Moretti glanced at Ada, who stood quietly near the entrance.
The old jeweler swallowed hard.
“Yes. Yes, Mrs. Ferri came in.”
“She sold you a gold watch,” Vincent said. “An 18-karat Patek Philippe. Custom engraving on the case back.”
Moretti’s face drained of color.
“Don Vincent... that was a fair transaction! I gave her full market value! I didn't cheat her, I swear on my mother's grave!”
“I know you didn't cheat her, Moretti,” Vincent said evenly. “Salvatore always said you were honest. That's not why I'm here.”
Vincent reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thick envelope of cash.
He set ten thousand dollars on the glass counter.
“I am buying it back. Ten thousand. Double what you paid.”
Moretti stared at the money.
Then his eyes darted toward the floor.
He looked terrified.
“Don Vincent...” Moretti’s voice cracked. “I... I don't have the watch.”
The air inside the shop instantly thickened.
Vincent didn't move an inch.
“Why don't you have it?”
“It was sold,” Moretti whispered.
“You know the law of this neighborhood, Moretti,” Vincent said, his voice dropping an octave, deadly and low. “Estate pieces from Romano staff are held for ninety days in the back safe before they are put on the market. That has been the rule since 1985.”
Moretti began to sweat profusely.
“I had to! I didn't have a choice!”
“Who bought it?”
Moretti looked at Marco standing by the door, then back at Vincent’s dark, unyielding expression.
“Enzo Marchesi,” Moretti confessed, his hands shaking violently. “He came in three days after Mrs. Ferri sold it.”
“Enzo?” Ada gasped softly.
Moretti nodded rapidly.
“He had a list of every item pawned by your retired staff over the last month! He demanded the watch. He said if I didn't sell it to him for what I paid, he would burn my shop to the ground. He said he was acting on behalf of his sister, Celeste!”
Vincent’s jaw set hard.
“What list?”
Moretti scrambled behind the counter, opening a metal safe beneath the cash register.
He pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper and handed it to Vincent.
It was a list of twenty-three items.
Pawned wedding rings. Family heirlooms. Medals of honor. Gold necklaces.
All belonged to Don Salvatore’s old friends and workers.
All had been systematically targeted, forced into pawn by Celeste’s extortion scheme, and then bought up cheaply by Enzo Marchesi.
“Why would they collect these items?” I couldn't help but ask aloud.
Vincent looked at the list, his eyes burning with cold calculation.
“Because Enzo runs an illegal auction house in Jersey City,” Vincent said. “They weren't just stealing cash. They were liquidating the sentimental history of my family to sell to foreign collectors who fetishize old mafia memorabilia.”
Vincent took the envelope of ten thousand dollars and pushed it across the counter to Moretti.
“Take it,” Vincent ordered.
“Don Vincent, I failed to hold the watch—”
“Take it,” Vincent repeated. “You gave me the truth. But if Enzo contacts you again, you call Marco immediately.”
“Yes, sir! Of course, Don Vincent! Thank you!”
We walked out of the jewelry shop and got back into the warm car.
Ada was crying silently.
“My watch is gone,” she wept. “Salvatore gave it to me on the day we had the big feast in the backyard... thirty years of cooking and cleaning, and he told me I was the queen of the house.”
Vincent wrapped his arm around Ada’s shoulders, pulling the old woman close to his chest.
“It is not gone, Ada,” Vincent promised her, his voice absolute and unbreakable. “I swear on my father’s soul. I will put that watch back on your wrist before the sun rises tomorrow.”
He looked up at the rearview mirror, meeting Marco’s eyes.
“Marco.”
May you like
“Yes, boss?”
“Call the boys. Tell them we are paying a visit to the Marchesi private warehouse.”
