Chapter 5 - The Ripple Effect
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Across the city, in the VIP lounge of a high-end underground casino, Victor sat counting a stack of banded hundred-dollar bills. He was thirty-two, wore a bespoke Italian suit, and possessed the dangerous ambition of a man who believed he was untouchable.
The heavy mahogany door to his private office swung open.
Victor didn't look up until he heard the wet, ragged coughing. Standing in the doorway was the youngest thug from the diner. His face was bruised, and he was holding his cracked ribs, leaning heavily against the doorframe just to stay upright.
“Where are Marcus and Paulie?” Victor asked, his voice smooth and dangerously calm.
“Hospital,” the kid wheezed, spitting a glob of blood onto Victor’s expensive Persian rug. “Marcus has a shattered arm and a crushed windpipe. Paulie’s nose is in his brain. The doctors said they’re lucky to be breathing.”
Victor stopped counting the money. He placed the stack on his mahogany desk and slowly stood up. He walked over to the young thug, studying the sheer terror radiating from the boy’s eyes.
“You went to a roadside diner on Route 17 to collect protection money from the owner,” Victor said quietly. “A simple shakedown. Who did this to you? Were there cops? A rival crew?”
“It was just one guy,” the kid sobbed, his bravado entirely gone. “Just one guy, Mr. Victor. We were messing with this waitress, and her husband walked in. He didn't even look like nobody special. Just a guy in a jacket. But the way he moved… he wasn't human. He took our guns like they were toys.”
Victor’s eyes narrowed. The waterfront territory around Route 17 had been neutral ground for three years, ever since the legendary boss of the Rossi family mysteriously vanished. Victor had assumed it was ripe for the taking.
“Did this husband give a name?” Victor asked.
“No,” the kid whimpered. “But he gave Marcus a message before he kicked us out into the rain. He told Marcus to tell Victor that the ghosts of the waterfront aren't dead. They’re just resting.”
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Victor’s blood ran cold. He recognized that phrase. It was an old Sicilian proverb used by only one man in the city.
Matteo Rossi was alive. And Victor had just threatened his wife.
