Chapter 4 - The Shadow of Frankie Rizzi
By 3:00 a.m., the snowstorm outside Pier 42 had turned into a full-blown blizzard.
Inside the reinforced warehouse, the temperature remained warm, but the tension was thick enough to choke on.
Dominic had set up a private room for Elena and Lily on the second floor of the office complex—a space normally reserved for high-level logistics negotiations. It featured a plush sofa, a private bathroom, and heavy steel-reinforced doors that could withstand small-arms fire.
Dominic sat on the floor of the room, his long legs stretched out, watching Lily construct a makeshift tower out of wooden shipping blocks Marco had cleaned off for her.
“Look, Daddy!” Lily chirped softly, pointing at her three-block tower.
The word hit Dominic’s chest like a physical blow. Daddy.
He hadn't asked her to call him that. He hadn't expected it. But hearing her small, clear voice pronounce the word made every sacrifice he was currently making feel insignificant.
“It’s a very strong tower, sweetheart,” Dominic said, his deep voice softening into a gentle register that no one in New York had ever heard him use.
“Does it have a roof?” Lily asked, squinting her big brown eyes at him.
“We can build one,” Dominic replied, reaching out with two fingers to carefully place a flat wooden piece across the top blocks. “There. Now the rain can't get in.”
Lily clapped her small hands together, letting out a bright, ringing laugh that echoed through the quiet room.
Elena stood by the small kitchenette, watching the scene with tears floating in her eyes. “She hasn't laughed like that since... since before we lost our apartment in Queens,” she whispered.
Dominic looked up at Elena. “You did a remarkable job with her, Elena. Under conditions that would have broken most people.”
“I was terrified every single day,” Elena admitted, leaning against the counter. “Every time a black car pulled up to the curb, every time someone knocked on our door, I thought it was your mother’s men coming to take her. I couldn't give her a big house, or fancy toys, Dominic. All I could give her was safety.”
“Safety is the greatest thing you could have given her,” Dominic said gravely. “And now it’s my turn to take the burden.”
Before Elena could answer, the red light above the heavy steel door flashed twice.
Dominic stood up instantly, his hand moving reflexively to his holster. “Stay here with her,” he instructed softly.
He stepped out into the hallway, locking the door behind him with his master keycard, and walked to the iron balcony overlooking the main floor.
Marco was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, holding an encrypted satellite phone.
“What happened?” Dominic asked.
“Frankie Rizzi just made a move,” Marco said in a low growl. “He didn't come to Pier 42 directly—he knows we’re fortified here. The bastard went to the hospital in Westchester.”
Dominic’s eyes flared with sudden heat. “Why Westchester?”
“Your old mentor, Don Carmine, is in the palliative care unit there,” Marco explained, his jaw tight. “Rizzi’s men took out the two guards we had posted outside Carmine’s room. They’re holding the old man hostage.”
Dominic’s mind raced. Don Carmine was seventy-eight years old, bedridden with advanced lung cancer. He was the former boss of the syndicate who had handed command to Dominic five years ago, bypassing Lucia’s greedy faction. Carmine was the only man whose voice still carried absolute authority among the old-guard members of the Commission.
“What does Rizzi want?” Dominic demanded.
“He left a message on Carmine’s phone,” Marco said, handing Dominic the tablet. “He wants you to meet him at the old sugar refinery on the Hudson at five in the morning. Alone. In exchange for Don Carmine’s life.”
Dominic looked at the time displayed on his watch. 3:35 a.m.
“He thinks I’m going to walk into an obvious ambush,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into an icy register.
“It’s a trap, Don Dominic,” Marco urged fiercely. “Rizzi has at least twenty sniper positions inside that refinery. He wants to take your head to Lucia before the Commission convenes at nine.”
Dominic stared down at the warehouse floor where forty of his most lethal men were checking their weapons.
“Rizzi thinks like a thug,” Dominic said coldly. “He thinks because he has a gun to an old man’s head, he dictates the game. He forgets who built the logistics network in this city.”
He turned to Marco.
“Call Vance and the tactical team from the Jersey side,” Dominic commanded. “Tell them to take the underground service tunnels beneath the refinery. We aren't going to negotiate with Frankie Rizzi, Marco.”
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Dominic pulled his black leather gloves onto his hands, tightening the straps across his wrists.
“We are going to execute him.”
