Chapter 4 - The Unseen Shadow
For the next four days, I played the dying man.
I bought makeup from an theatrical supply store in Midtown and subtly darkened the skin beneath my eyes. I walked slower. I let my hands tremble slightly when holding coffee cups during meetings with my lieutenants. I allowed rumours to circulate through the underbelly of the city that Alessandro Vitale was losing his grip, that his heart was giving out.
The sharks began to circle immediately.
Dominic Falcone called a general council meeting of the Five Families at an abandoned warehouse near the Red Hook container terminal—neutral ground. The official topic was "port distribution rights," but everyone knew the real purpose: Falcone wanted to measure my corpse before I was even buried.
When my SUV pulled up to the warehouse on Friday evening, rain was pouring in sheets.
Marco opened my door, holding an umbrella over my head. I leaned heavily on his arm as I stepped out, exaggerating a raspy breath. Max bounded out behind us, his black coat glistening under the sodium lights.
"Leave the dog in the car, Vitale," one of Falcone’s guards demanded at the warehouse entrance, reaching for his waist holster.
Max didn't snarl. He simply stepped in front of me and froze. He didn't blink. His amber eyes locked onto the guard’s throat with such intense, calculated stillness that the man’s hand froze mid-air.
"He stays with me," I said, my voice weak, wheezing slightly. "I need him to keep my balance."
The guard swallowed hard, looking at the massive Cane Corso, and backed away. "Fine. But if he twitches, my men put him down."
We walked inside. The warehouse was massive, smelling of salt water, diesel fuel, and damp concrete. A single long wooden table sat in the center beneath hanging halogen lamps. Sitting at the head of the table was Dominic Falcone—a man in his late fifties with slicked-back silver hair, tailored silk suits, and the eyes of a cold-water shark.
Three other family bosses sat along the sides, flanked by their security teams.
"Alessandro," Falcone said, leaning back in his chair with a patronizing, pitying smile. "You look... terrible, my friend. Are you sure you shouldn't be resting at home? Isabella must be worried sick."
Hearing his name drop my wife’s name in front of the council made my teeth ache from clenching them so hard.
"I'm fine, Dominic," I croaked, taking my seat at the opposite end of the table. Max lay down directly beneath my chair, his body pressed against my boots like a loaded spring. "I hear you're making moves on my union locals at Pier 42."
"Moves? No, no," Falcone laughed smoothly, waving his hand. "I'm merely offering management solutions. We all know you're undergoing health challenges, Sandro. A man in your condition shouldn't be stressed by union negotiations. Hand the piers over to me. Retire to your brownstone. Spend your remaining days with your beautiful children."
The subtle threat was clear: Give me what I want now, or I’ll take it after you die.
I leaned forward, letting my shoulders slump as if exhausted. "Maybe... maybe you're right, Dominic. Maybe it's time I stepped back."
Marco, standing behind me, played his role brilliantly, letting out a subtle gasp of dismay. The other bosses exchanged surprised, hungry glances. The great Alessandro Vitale was surrendering without a fight.
Falcone’s smile expanded, bright and triumphant. "A wise decision, Sandro. I'll have my lawyers draft the territorial transfer papers by Monday. You just sign them, and you can live out the rest of your life in peace."
"Monday," I repeated, nodding weakly. "Send them to my house. Isabella can review them."
Falcone’s eyes flickered with a flash of dark, shared understanding—a look that confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt that he and my wife were sharing more than just family bloodlines. They were counting down the hours together.
As I stood up to leave, Falcone called out, "Oh, Sandro?"
I paused, turning slowly. "Yes?"
"That dog," Falcone said, pointing at Max. "I remember when Isabella bought him from the breeder in Calabria. A silent killer, right? Never barks."
"Never," I said.
May you like
"Good beast," Falcone sneered. "Shame animals don't know who really owns them."
Max didn't make a sound. But as we walked out into the rain, the dog turned his head back toward Falcone, his black lip lifting just enough to reveal three inches of razor-sharp white fang.
