Chapter 4 - THE INTERROGATION AT DAWN
The precinct captains didn’t show up at Giovani’s until forty minutes after the bodies had already been zipped into black nylon bags and loaded into unmarked black vans. The NYPD knew whose territory the waterfront was. Two detectives in cheap suits took statements from the crying hostess, took a three-minute look at the shattered mirrors, and nodded when Carlo handed them a pair of sealed manila envelopes over the bar counter.
“Self-defense,” the lead detective said, not writing a single word in his notepad. “Robbery gone wrong. Gangs out of Queens.”
“Naturally,” Carlo replied smoothly.
By 2:00 a.m., the dining room had been taped off, the remaining staff dismissed with strict warnings and thick rolls of hundred-dollar bills.
Orion didn't get to go home.
She sat in the back office of Giovani’s, perched on a metal folding chair under the buzzing hum of a fluorescent tube. Her hands were wrapped around a paper cup of lukewarm tap water. Her apron was gone, leaving her in her plain black button-down and trousers.
The door clicked open.
Salvatore walked in alone. He had removed his cashmere overcoat, revealing a fitted charcoal vest over a crisp white dress shirt with the cuffs turned back twice, exposing thick, scarred forearms and a sprawling black ink tattoo of an archangel with a sword burning through thorny vines.
He pulled a leather desk chair across the linoleum, spun it around, and sat down three feet in front of her, resting his folded arms on the backrest.
“Your father was Thomas Miller,” Salvatore said. It wasn't a question.
Orion’s fingers tightened on the paper cup until the water rippled. “You ran my name.”
“I run every name that breathes within five feet of my dinner table,” Salvatore said calmly. “Thomas Miller. Gunner’s Mate First Class, United States Navy. Later, head of private security for the Moretti family before Dante Moretti decided to clean house five years ago.”
A cold knot formed in Orion’s throat. She stared at the floor between their shoes. “My father died in an industrial fire at the Red Hook docks. That was the official report.”
“Your father died with three rounds in the base of his skull because he wouldn't let Dante’s runners move fentanyl through the Red Hook school district,” Salvatore corrected, his voice flat, devoid of pity, stating facts like an accountant reviewing inventory. “He taught you how to spot a shooter.”
“He taught me how to stay alive,” she whispered. “He said men who carry guns for a living walk like they’re trying not to spill coffee. He said watch the mirrors, watch the doors, and never trust a clean apron in a dirty room.”
Salvatore watched her in silence for several long heartbeats. His amber eyes caught the sickly fluorescent light, glittering like polished topaz.
“You saved my life tonight, Miss Miller.”
“I warned you,” she said. “Carlo did the shooting.”
“Carlo was three seconds behind. If that boy by the fire exit had drawn first, his suppressor would have caught me in the temple before Carlo cleared his holster.” Salvatore leaned forward slightly, his broad shoulders cutting off the rest of the room. “In my line of work, people don't do that for free. Especially not daughters of dead security guards who owe fifty-two thousand dollars to the loan sharks on 4th Avenue.”
Orion’s chin snapped up, her eyes flashing with sudden, dangerous fury. “Leave my brother out of this.”
“Leo,” Salvatore said, the name dropping like an iron coin on the desk. “Nine years old. Chronic asthmatic with a heart defect requiring three surgeries at Columbia Presbyterian that your waitress wages and your father’s nonexistent pension couldn't touch. The loan was brokered by a rat named Vinnie ‘The Hook’ Calvetti. Vinnie works for Dante Moretti.”
Orion stood up so fast her metal chair scraped violently against the floor. “Did you bring me in here to threaten my family? Because if you think I’m afraid of you, Rossi, you’re wrong. I’ve watched my brother turn blue in my arms while the city ambulance took forty-five minutes to show up because of our zip code! You and your little mob war don't scare me! Nothing you do can be worse than what I face every morning!”
She was shaking, her chest heaving, the sheer, exhausting weight of five years of poverty and dread finally breaking through her professional veneer.
Salvatore didn't flinch. He didn't reach for a weapon. He didn't even stand up.
He reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a thick, bound document stamped with legal seals, and tossed it onto the desk between them. Beside it, he laid a set of heavy brass keys on a leather fob.
“That is the deed of release for the loan with Calvetti,” Salvatore said quietly. “Signed by Vinnie’s attorney thirty minutes ago. The debt is zeroed out. Paid in full.”
Orion stared at the paper as if it were coated in arsenic. “What did you do to Vinnie?”
“Vinnie decided to relocate to South Florida,” Salvatore replied without blinking. “The climate is better for his joints. And the keys belong to a brownstone on Willow Street in Brooklyn Heights. Secure building. Private gate. Medical staff on retainer twenty-four hours a day.”
Orion felt the floor tilt beneath her feet. The breath left her lungs in a ragged gasp. “Why?”
“Because Dante Moretti sent those two men tonight,” Salvatore said, rising from the chair. He stood over her, his presence overwhelming, yet strangely steadying in the cold room. “Dante knows you spotted the shooter. By sunrise, his scouts will know who warned Table 9. If you go back to your apartment on 14th Street, you and your brother won't see tomorrow night.”
“I can take Leo and leave the city,” she said frantically. “I have savings—twelve hundred dollars. We can take a bus to Pennsylvania—”
“You wouldn't make the Lincoln Tunnel,” Salvatore cut her off, his voice dropping into that dark, immovable register. “Dante has toll cameras, transit cops, and half the Port Authority on his payroll. You survived tonight because you were smart. Don't become stupid now, Orion.”
She looked up at him, caught between the terrifying reality of Dante Moretti’s vengeance and the velvet trap of Salvatore Rossi’s protection.
“Nothing is free with men like you,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “What do you want from me?”
Salvatore reached out. His fingers—calloused, warm, and surprisingly gentle—brushed against the underside of her chin, tilting her face up until her defiant eyes met his.
May you like
“I want you to live,” Salvatore said softly. “And I want Dante Moretti to watch me take everything he owns, starting with the girl he tried to turn into collateral damage.”
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