Chapter 7 - THE BASEMENT BARGAIN
The narrow concrete corridor of the hospital sub-basement felt like the inside of a tomb. The heavy hum of the mechanical generator vibrating through the floor was the only proof that life still existed behind the locked steel doors of the surgical bunker.
Dominic Russo stood thirty feet away from Victor Romano. He was unarmed, his tuxedo jacket gone, his white shirt stained with Amelia’s blood.
Victor held the detonator loosely in his right hand. The green light blinked, a digital heartbeat counting down to a massacre. The two enforcers flanking him had their automatic weapons raised, aimed directly at Dominic’s chest.
“Shoot me,” Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly calm. He spread his arms slightly, exposing the center of his chest. “If blood pays for blood, Victor, take mine. You want justice for your son? Kill the Don of the Russo family. But leave the bunker alone.”
Victor’s eyes narrowed. Fifteen years of grief had etched deep, bitter lines into his face. “You still don't understand, do you, Dominic? Death is a mercy. When your father killed my boy, he didn't grant me the mercy of a bullet. He left me alive to carry the ghost. I want you to carry a ghost.”
“My father was a monster,” Dominic agreed, his voice echoing off the concrete. “I have never denied that. But I am not my father.”
“You sit on his throne. You spend the money he stole. You are the heir to his violence,” Victor spat. His thumb pressed tighter against the detonator button. “Your child doesn't get to live in the light while mine rots in the dark.”
Dominic reached into his pocket. He moved slowly, deliberately, keeping his eyes locked on Victor. The enforcers tensed, fingers tightening on their triggers.
Dominic pulled his hand out. He wasn't holding a weapon.
He was holding a small, tarnished silver rosary. The beads were heavily oxidized, the crucifix bent slightly at the bottom.
Victor stared at the object. The color drained completely from his face. His hand holding the detonator began to shake.
“Where did you get that?” Victor whispered, his voice cracking.
“This belonged to your son,” Dominic said quietly, letting the rosary dangle from his fingers. “He was holding it the night he died.”
“I know what it is!” Victor roared, the polished mob boss facade shattering. “I bought it for him in Rome! When the police returned his body to me, the rosary was gone. Where did you get it?”
“I found it ten years ago,” Dominic said, taking one slow step forward. “When I took over the family after my father’s heart attack, I audited every safe, every ledger, every secret he kept. I found this rosary in a lockbox in his private study.”
Victor’s breathing turned ragged. “He kept it as a trophy. That sick, twisted bastard kept a trophy of my dead boy.”
“He did,” Dominic confirmed, the disgust evident in his own voice. “But he didn't put it in the lockbox to admire it, Victor. He put it there to hide the truth.”
Victor’s brow furrowed. “What truth?”
“My father didn't order the hit on your restaurant,” Dominic said. The words hit the heavy air like physical blows.
“Liar!” Victor shouted, stepping forward, raising the detonator. “Everyone knows Carlo ordered it to take the shipping lanes!”
“He took the shipping lanes after the hit, because you were weak and grieving,” Dominic corrected gently. “He capitalized on the tragedy. But he didn't pull the trigger. And he didn't order it.”
Dominic reached into his other pocket and pulled out a folded piece of yellowed paper.
“Inside the lockbox with the rosary was a contract. A signed agreement guaranteeing protection and ten percent of the north side docks to the man who organized the drive-by.”
Dominic tossed the folded paper onto the concrete floor. It landed halfway between them.
“Read it, Victor.”
Victor stared at the paper on the floor. He glanced at the closed steel doors of the bunker, then at Dominic. He nodded to one of his enforcers. The man quickly stepped forward, picked up the paper, and handed it to Victor, keeping his gun trained on Dominic.
Victor unfolded the fragile, yellowed paper. He read the neat, typewritten lines. Then, his eyes dropped to the signature at the bottom.
Victor stopped breathing.
“No,” Victor whispered.
“Yes,” Dominic said softly.
“This is a forgery,” Victor said, his voice trembling as he stared at the signature. “My brother wouldn't do this. Sal wouldn't sell his own family out to your father.”
“Sal wanted to be the head of the Romano family,” Dominic explained, the tragic reality of their world laid bare. “But you were the boss, and you were grooming your son to follow you. Sal went to my father. He asked for men and guns to stage a hit on the restaurant, making it look like a rival gang. Sal was supposed to take you out. But the shooter missed. He hit your boy instead.”
Victor dropped the paper. It fluttered to the concrete floor like a dead leaf.
“Sal brought the rosary to my father as proof that the deed was done,” Dominic finished. “My father kept it, and the contract, as blackmail to keep Sal in line. That’s why Sal never challenged me when I took over. He knew I had the proof that he murdered his own nephew.”
Victor’s eyes were wide, staring at nothing. For fifteen years, he had aimed all his hatred, all his resources, all his grief at the Russo family. He had poisoned an innocent woman. He had planned to murder a child in an incubator.
And the man who actually ordered his son’s death had been sitting at his Sunday dinner table for a decade and a half.
“You're lying to save your baby,” Victor choked out, tears spilling over his eyelashes.
Dominic tossed the tarnished silver rosary through the air.
Victor caught it by instinct. His hands closed around the familiar, bent crucifix. The cold metal seemed to burn his skin. He fell to his knees on the concrete, clutching the rosary to his chest, letting out a sound that wasn't human. It was the sound of a man realizing he had spent his life fighting the wrong war.
“Go home, Victor,” Dominic said quietly. “Take your men. Go handle your brother. And never, ever look at my family again.”
Victor knelt on the floor, sobbing into his hands. He slowly reached out and set the black detonator on the concrete floor, pushing it away from himself.
The two enforcers looked at each other, lowered their weapons, and gently pulled their broken boss to his feet. They guided Victor down the corridor, disappearing into the shadows.
Dominic stood alone in the hallway. He looked at the blinking green light of the detonator sitting harmlessly on the floor.
Suddenly, the heavy steel doors of the surgical bunker unlocked with a loud clack.
Dr. Harrison stepped out, his surgical scrubs covered in blood. He pulled his mask down, his face exhausted, pale, but shining with an emotion Dominic hadn't seen in hours.
“Dominic,” the doctor breathed.
Dominic felt his heart stop. “My wife.”
Dr. Harrison smiled. “She’s resting. She lost a lot of blood, but the tox-screen shows the Thallium levels are dropping rapidly now that the placenta is removed. She is going to be fine.”
Dominic closed his eyes, a profound, shuddering wave of relief washing over him. “And... the boy?”
Dr. Harrison stepped aside, gesturing toward the bright, sterile lights of the bunker.
May you like
“He’s small,” Harrison warned gently. “He has a long fight ahead of him in the NICU. But his lungs are stronger than we thought. Come see for yourself, boss.”
Dominic walked past the doctor, stepping into the light.
