Chapter 5 - Whispers in the Syndicate
Across the city, in a high-rise penthouse overlooking the Hudson River, Arthur Vance poured himself three fingers of aged bourbon.
At sixty-five, Arthur was a titan of organized crime. He had survived the old mob wars by being calculating, vicious, and utterly without mercy. Sitting across from him at the glass conference table was Thomas Russo, visibly nervous, constantly wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Vivien hasn’t checked in,” Thomas muttered, checking his burner phone for the tenth time. “She was supposed to text the confirmation code two hours ago. What if Gallo caught her?”
Arthur waved his hand dismissively, the heavy diamond pinky ring on his finger catching the light.
“My daughter knows how to handle a soft target,” Arthur said with a cruel smirk. “Dominic’s new little wife is a decorator. An artist. A nobody from Europe. Vivien will carve her up, Dominic will lose his composure, and when he rushes home in a blind rage, your men will ambush him on Route 9.”
“And if Dominic didn't fall for the bait?” Thomas pressed.
Arthur’s smile vanished, replaced by an expression of pure malice.
“Then we execute Plan B. We take eighty men, heavy weaponry, and we burn the Gallo manor to the ground. By tomorrow morning, the Russo and Vance families will control every port, every union, and every narcotics route in New York.”
Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the penthouse burst open.
Arthur’s chief of security stumbled into the room, his face pale as a sheet.
“Boss… we got a package outside the freight elevator.”
Arthur frowned, setting his bourbon down. “What package?”
“It’s… it’s Miss Vivien.”
Arthur sprang from his chair, knocking his glass over. He shoved past the guards and rushed out into the private marble corridor.
Lying on the floor, wrapped in a black canvas body bag that was unzipped to the neck, was Vivien. She was battered, bruised, both her arms set in casts, but breathing. Pinned to her chest with an ornate antique silver dagger was a handwritten note on Gallo family stationery.
Arthur dropped to his knees, trembling with fury as he pulled the parchment off the blade.
The handwriting was neat, elegant, and written in calligraphy ink:
You sent a child to do a professional's job.
Retire by dawn, Arthur, or I will come for you myself.
— Eleanor Gallo.
May you like
Arthur’s hands shook so hard the paper tore. “Eleanor? Who the hell is Eleanor?”
Thomas Russo swallowed hard, stepping back toward the shadows. “That’s his wife… boss. That’s Nora.”
