Chapter 4 - The Chicago Ultimatum
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Vincent watched Nora pour the tea. He had never met someone who occupied space around him so casually. The capos walked on eggshells; the guards stood like statues. Nora simply existed, unbothered by his reputation.
He walked farther into the room.
"Ma," Vincent said softly, kneeling beside his mother's armchair.
Camila looked at him, her eyes bright from the dancing. "Vincent. You look tired. Are you working too hard at the bakery?"
Thomas had owned a bakery before the syndicate consumed their lives. Vincent didn't correct her.
"Just a long shift, Ma." He kissed her cheek. "I brought you some cannoli."
"Oh, lovely. Give them to Nora. She works too hard." Camila patted his hand. "She needs some meat on her bones."
Nora handed Camila a cup of tea, ignoring the comment about her weight. She shot Vincent a look over the rim of her own cup. It was a look of quiet understanding, a shared acknowledgment of the delicate reality they were managing.
Vincent stood up, gesturing for Nora to follow him into the adjoining sitting room. He closed the door partially, leaving a gap to keep an eye on Camila.
"How has she been today?" Vincent asked, pouring himself a glass of water from a crystal carafe.
"Good. Clearer than yesterday," Nora reported, leaning against the doorframe. "She remembered her sister's name this morning. But she gets agitated if the door to the hallway is closed. She thinks she's locked in."
"Leave it open, then."
"I do." Nora studied him for a moment. Her dark eyes, usually bright with a resilient energy, sharpened. "You look like you haven't slept in a week. Your knuckles are bruised."
Vincent instinctively curled his right hand. The skin across his knuckles was split and dark purple. The meeting with the capos had not ended peacefully.
"It's a hazard of my profession," he said flatly.
"Punching people?"
"Sometimes, people need to be punched."
Nora crossed her arms. "I hope they were union."
Vincent let out a short, genuine laugh. It surprised him. It surprised her, too.
"The Chicago situation," Nora said, her voice dropping lower. She didn't read the news, but the tension in the estate was palpable. Guards were doubled. Everyone was on edge. "Is it getting worse?"
Vincent's brief moment of levity vanished. He looked out the window, his jaw tightening.
"Carmine Gallow is demanding territory," Vincent said. It was a dangerous admission to make to a civilian, but he found himself speaking anyway. "He wants the shipping routes through New Jersey. If I don't give them to him, he threatens war. If I do, I look weak, and my own men will turn on me."
"So, what do you do?"
"I find leverage." Vincent turned back to her. "I find something Carmine values more than territory."
Before Nora could respond, the sitting room door opened. Paulie, Vincent’s underboss, stepped inside. His face was pale.
"Boss," Paulie said, his voice tight. "We have a problem. A big one."
Vincent immediately moved toward the door, his demeanor shifting from weary son to the ruthless head of the Russo syndicate.
"What happened, Paulie?"
Paulie glanced nervously at Nora. Vincent gave a sharp nod, indicating it was fine to speak.
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"It's Beatrice Gallow," Paulie said. "She was attacked outside a restaurant in Manhattan an hour ago. She’s in the hospital. Critical condition."
Vincent’s blood ran cold. The fragile treaty had just been shattered.
