Chapter 5 - The Hidden Tape
The formal dining room was lit by a crystal chandelier that cast sharp, prismatic reflections across the twenty-foot mahogany table.
Sal sat at the far end, sipping a vintage Barolo, casually checking messages on his burner phone. When I entered and took my seat at the head of the table, he slid the phone into his pocket with an easy grin.
“Mrs. Donnelly outdid herself with the wine, Dom,” Sal said, gesturing to the bottle. “Reminds me of that trip we took to Tuscany with Isabelle back in ’18.”
“It’s a good vintage,” I said, picking up the heavy silver carving knife and slicing into the roast on the platter before me. “Isabelle always had impeccable taste. In wine. In houses. In loyalty.”
Sal chuckled, though his eyes narrowed slightly. “She was one of a kind.”
“You know what I found in her safety deposit box this morning, Sal?” I asked, slicing another strip of beef with deliberate precision.
Sal paused, his fork hovering an inch above his plate. “I thought you closed all her accounts last year.”
“I missed one,” I said casually. “A private box at Chase Manhattan in Mineola. Registered under her maiden name.”
The room went deathly still. The only sound was the scrape of my knife against porcelain.
“Is that so?” Sal said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its jovial warmth. “What was in it?”
“A microcassette recorder,” I said, setting the carving knife down with a soft *clink*. “And a small leather notebook belonging to a boy named Julian Vance.”
Sal’s knuckles turned white around the stem of his wine glass. The mask of brotherhood he had worn for thirty years began to fracture at the edges.
“Dom,” Sal said quietly, his posture shifting, leaning back slightly in his chair to give his right hand clear access to his shoulder holster. “You’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Mutism specialists, running the docks, grieving Isabelle. Maybe you’re letting your imagination run wild.”
“Isabelle knew,” I continued, staring directly into his dark eyes. “She figured out you were siphoning ten percent off the Brooklyn freight to finance the Moretti family’s expansion into Nassau County. She went to Garden City that morning not to pick up the girls, but to confront you in the parking lot. She thought your friendship with me meant something. She thought you’d listen to reason.”
Sal didn't deny it. The veneer vanished entirely, replaced by the cold, calculating expression of a mobster backed into a corner.
“She was a liability, Dominic,” Sal said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. “She was going to blow up an arrangement that was making us fifty million a year. You had gone soft. Ever since Nora was born, you talked about moving assets into legitimate real estate, walking away from the docks, leaving the life. You were going to dismantle everything we bled for in the nineties.”
“So you had her executed in front of my children?”
“I didn't plan for the kids to see it!” Sal snapped, a flash of venom breaking through his composure. “She brought them with her! She parked across the street and got out of the car! What was I supposed to do, Dom? Let her hand you my head on a platter?”
“You framed the Morettis.”
“Of course I did,” Sal sneered, reaching slowly inside his jacket. “And you wiped out half their leadership for me. You did my dirty work, Dominic. You cleared the board so I could take the crown.”
Before Sal’s hand could clear his lapel, the double doors leading to the kitchen swung open.
Marcus, my head of security, stepped through with a 12-gauge tactical shotgun leveled directly at the back of Sal’s head. Two more heavily armed soldiers flanked the dining room's French doors, their submachine guns raised.
Sal froze, his hand still buried inside his coat.
“Take his weapon,” I told Marcus without raising my voice.
Marcus stepped forward, jammed the muzzle of the shotgun into the base of Sal’s skull, and reached inside his jacket, retrieving a customized Colt .380. He tossed the pistol onto the mahogany table. It slid across the polished wood, stopping against my water glass.
Sal let out a ragged breath, glaring at me with raw hatred. “You think you’ve won, Dominic? You think you’re walking away from this?”
“I don't think,” I said, rising from my chair. “I know.”
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“You’re an idiot,” Sal spat, a sinister grin spreading across his face. “You think I came here alone? Look out the front windows, Dom. My strike team has had this perimeter surrounded since four o'clock. If I don't check in on my radio in five minutes, they light this mansion up like the Fourth of July. Your daughters won't leave this house alive.”
***
