Chapter 2 - The Father's Debt
The basement of the funeral home was quiet, cool, and smelled heavily of formaldehyde and cut lilies. Mateo Vasquez sat on a metal folding chair in the small office, his hands clutching a styrofoam cup of cold coffee. His eyes were red-rimmed, hollowed out by days of sleepless agony.
When I entered the room, he didn't shrink back, even though he knew who I was. A man who has lost his only child has no fear left for mobsters.
Bruno walked into the office ahead of me, his heavy paws tapping softly on the linoleum. He didn't approach Mateo aggressively; instead, he rested his massive head directly on the man's knee, letting out a soft sigh. Mateo’s hand trembled as he lowered it onto Bruno’s fur, his fingers twisting into the thick coat.
"Your dog," Mateo whispered, his voice hoarse and broken. "He came to the house two days ago."
I froze near the door. "What?"
Mateo looked up at me, his hollow eyes meeting mine. "Two nights ago, I was sitting on my front porch. I couldn't sleep. The police had just left—said they had no leads on the car that hit my Elena. Then this big dog walked up the driveway. He was alone. He sat on the porch steps for an hour, just looking at me. Then he walked away."
I looked at Bruno. My dog had slipped out through the estate gate two nights ago—we had searched for him for three hours before he returned covered in street dust. I had assumed he was chasing an alley cat.
He had gone to guard the grieving father.
"Mr. Vasquez," I said, taking a seat across from him. "I am not here today to talk about your debt. Your debt is canceled. Erased."
Mateo let out a dry, bitter laugh. "It doesn't matter anymore, Don Sal. Take the restaurant. Take everything. My girl is gone. Nothing in that building matters without her."
"I don't want your restaurant," I said firmly. "I am here because the man who killed your daughter was one of mine."
Mateo went completely still. His hand stopped moving on Bruno’s head. The air in the tiny basement room felt razor-sharp. "What did you say?"
"His name is Marco Ricci. My underboss," I said, laying the cold facts out without embellishment or excuses. "He wanted your property for an unauthorized real estate deal. He was coming to harass you three days ago. He was driving recklessly, he hit Elena, and he fled like a coward."
Mateo stared at me, his jaw trembling. Tears welled up in his eyes, but behind the tears, a terrifying flame of raw, unadulterated fury ignited. "You brought his murderer under the same roof as my dead child?"
"I didn't know," I said honestly. "Bruno knew. The moment Marco entered the chapel, Bruno refused to leave Elena's side and pointed him out to me."
Mateo dropped to his knees on the linoleum floor, burying his face in Bruno’s neck. He began to sob—deep, chest-heaving wails that echoed off the concrete walls of the basement. The dog wrapped his huge head around the man’s shoulders, standing as steady as a granite statue, absorbing the father’s grief.
I waited until the storm passed, until Mateo pushed himself back up, wiping his face with a stained handkerchief.
"What are you going to do to him?" Mateo asked, his voice deadly quiet.
"In my world, there are rules," I said. "We do not touch family. We do not touch children. A man who breaks those rules ceases to be a human being in our eyes. He becomes a liability that must be removed."
"I want to see him," Mateo said.
"No," I replied instantly. "You do not need that darkness inside you, Mr. Vasquez. Go upstairs. Finish saying goodbye to your daughter. Let me handle the garbage."
Mateo stood up, looking down at Bruno. "He's a good dog."
"He's better than most men," I said.
I stood up and left the basement, Bruno trailing closely at my heels. As we walked out into the rain once more, Tony was waiting for me beside the Lincoln.
"Boss," Tony said, holding his phone out. "We ran Marco's personal bank accounts like you asked. It’s worse than we thought."
"How much worse?"
"He wasn't acting alone. The wire transfers for the dock properties were coming from a corporate account registered in New Jersey. The shell company belongs to Arthur Moretti."
I stopped in my tracks, the rain soaking through my wool coat. Arthur Moretti was the Don of the rival family in Manhattan. We had signed a peace treaty six years ago after a bloody turf war that claimed twelve lives.
"Marco was selling us out," I murmured.
"He's been feeding Moretti our collection routes for six months," Tony confirmed, his face dark with fury. "The land around Vasquez’s restaurant was going to be used as a smuggling terminal for Moretti’s narcotics. Marco was getting a ten percent cut of the entire operation."
The picture was finally complete. The tragic hit-and-run wasn't an isolated accident; it was a symptom of a deep, rotting cancer that had infected my own inner circle. Marco had traded his loyalty, his brothers, and the safety of innocent people for Moretti's cash.
"Where is Marco now?" I asked.
May you like
"In the basement of the meatpacking plant on 14th Street. Tied to a chair. He's begging to speak to you."
"Let him beg," I said, climbing into the back seat of the sedan. Bruno leaped in beside me, resting his wet chin on my knee. "First, we are going to pay a visit to Arthur Moretti."
