“My mother has this ring,” the filthy little girl whispered, her pale hazel eyes locked onto the solid gold hound on his pinky. The icy wind howling through the alleyway seemed to stop instantly, and Dominic felt a violent, physical blow strike the center of his chest as his hand instinctively dropped toward his loaded Glock.
Chapter 1: The Tedium of Violence
The damp, airless basement of the meatpacking plant smelled overwhelmingly of industrial bleach and raw copper. Dominic adjusted the collar of his tailored charcoal overcoat against the biting chill, staring dead-eyed at the mid-level distributor tied to a metal folding chair.
“I didn’t skim, Dom, I swear to God!” the man sobbed, blood and saliva stringing from his swollen lip. “The shipments were light out of Jersey, I told you that!”
“You talk too fast when you lie, Marcus,” Dominic said, his voice a flat, terrifying monotone. “It’s a bad habit.”
“Please! I have a family!” Marcus screamed, thrashing against the heavy zip-ties cutting into his wrists.
“Everyone has a family, Marcus,” Dominic replied, his tone entirely devoid of warmth. “Some of us just know how to keep them breathing.”
Dominic didn’t raise his voice. He rarely needed to anymore. He simply nodded at his enforcer, Paulie, who methodically shattered the man’s left knee with a heavy steel wrench. The wet, sickening crunch echoed off the concrete walls, followed immediately by a guttural scream that made Dominic’s tension headache throb even harder.
“You’re done in this city,” Dominic whispered, leaning close enough for Marcus to smell the expensive peppermint on his breath. “If I see your face above ground again, I’ll take the other leg. Do you understand?”
“Yes! Jesus, yes!” Marcus wailed, clutching his mangled leg.
It wasn’t exhilarating; it was purely mechanical. The violence had long ago lost its sharp edge, eroding into a dull chore necessary to maintain his empire. Dominic turned on his heel, his heavy leather oxfords scuffing the blood-stained concrete as he walked up the stairs to the street, leaving Paulie to finish the cleanup.
Outside, the bitter November wind cut through his expensive layers. The rain was mixing with the smell of stale beer, exhaust, and rotting garbage. Cars were parked a block down, the city’s inherent stench of wet concrete thick in the air.
“Parade blocked off Fifth,” Paulie grumbled around the filter of a cheap cigarette, stepping out of the shadows and falling in line beside him. “We gotta walk to the Lincoln.”
Dominic only grunted, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets. His right thumb subconsciously sought out the custom signet ring on his pinky finger, tracing the deeply carved crest of a two-headed hound. It was a nervous tic he would never admit to having, a grounding technique for a man who lived on the edge of a razor blade.
They were nearing the alleyway where his armored car was idling when the shadow detached itself from the brick wall.
