Chapter 4: Ghosts of the Past

 The rain fell in slow, steady sheets, pooling in the cracks of the pavement like old blood that never really washed away. It blurred the streetlights, softened the neon glow of distant bars, but it didn't clean the city. Nothing ever really did.

Dom Ricci stepped out of his car, his polished shoes splashing against the wet asphalt. He adjusted the cuffs of his coat, rolling his shoulders against the bite of the cold night air.

Rosario's.

The sign above the entrance flickered, buzzing faintly like it was trying to hold on to something that had already been lost. The bar had stood longer than most men in this city. Before Dom. Before his empire. Before the betrayal he could feel slithering beneath the surface of everything.

It smelled like aged wood, stale smoke, and the kind of memories that refused to die.

He hadn't been here in years—not since things changed. Not since the ghosts he used to drink with stopped being memories and became shadows that followed him wherever he went.

And tonight, one of those ghosts was waiting for him.

-----------

Marco Vasquez sat at the bar, hunched over a half-empty glass, his fingers drumming lightly against the countertop. He looked worse than the last time Dom saw him—more hollowed out, more frayed at the edges.

He was aging in the worst way—not from years, but from everything they carried with them.

Dom sighed, already bracing himself. 

"You look like hell," he said, sliding onto the stool beside him.

Marco let out a quiet, bitter chuckle, not looking up. "That supposed to be news?"

The bartender, a man too smart to say much around the kind of people who sat in his bar, wordlessly set another glass in front of Marco. Marco's fingers curled around it instantly, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping him from slipping away completely.

Dom watched him for a beat. 

"This ain't the answer."

Marco took a slow sip, his eyes fixed on the counter like he was afraid to meet Dom's gaze. 

"You think I don't know that?" His voice was quiet, raw. "You think I don't wake up every day knowing I should've cashed out a long time ago?"

Dom exhaled, signaling the bartender to cut him off. Marco noticed but didn't argue. Maybe he was too tired. Maybe he just didn't care anymore.

"You ain't gone yet, Marco," Dom said. "You still got time to pull yourself back."

Marco let out a sharp, hollow laugh. 

"Back to what, Dom?" he muttered, rolling his empty glass between his palms. He turned then, finally meeting Dom's gaze. There was something tired in his eyes. Something that had given up, but hadn't quite let go.

"That guy's gone," he said.

Dom didn't answer because Marco wasn't wrong.

For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy with unspoken truths. Dom thought about all the fights they'd won together, all the battles they'd survived. And now, here was Marco—a shadow of the man who once stood beside him as an unshakable force. 

"I'm sorry," Dom said finally, surprising even himself. 

Marco blinked, taken aback by the apology. "Sorry for what? For making me the man I am? Or for letting me become the man I am?"

Before Dom could respond, the door swung open.

---

Isabella "Izzy" DeLuca stepped inside like she still owned the place.

She was dressed in black, sharp and sleek, her coat tailored to perfection, her dark hair pulled back into something effortlessly elegant. She was all precision—every movement, every glance, every breath, calculated.

The air in the bar shifted.

Marco scoffed under his breath. "Well, well. The ghost of heartbreaks past."

Izzy smirked, sliding onto the stool on Dom's other side. She smelled like something expensive—leather, bourbon, maybe a little regret.

"Still got a mouth on you, Marco." 

Marco raised his glass in a mock salute. "And you still know how to make an entrance."

Dom sighed, rubbing his temple. "What do you want, Izzy?"

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she signaled to the bartender. A glass of bourbon appeared in front of her, neat. She lifted it, took a slow, deliberate sip.

Then, finally, she spoke. 

"You look tired, Dom."

Dom smirked, though there wasn't much humor in it. "You didn't come all the way here to tell me that."

"No," she admitted, setting the glass down. "I came to remind you that the walls are closing in."

Dom's jaw tensed. "You always did love your cryptic warnings."

"I'm just telling you what you already know," she said. "You built this empire with your own hands, but you didn't build it to last."

He exhaled slowly, fingers tapping against his own glass. 

"So what, you here to watch it burn?"

Izzy tilted her head, studying him. 

"Maybe," she said. "Or maybe I'm here because I want to know if you're smart enough to see what's coming."

Her gaze flickered toward Marco. 

"He sees it," she said.

Marco let out a dry, tired laugh, swirling what was left of his drink. 

"Funny thing about ghosts," he muttered. "They don't haunt places. They haunt people."

---

The jukebox switched songs.

A slow, familiar melody drifted through the bar.

Dom knew it instantly—an old Sinatra track that used to play when he and Izzy sat in this very bar, years ago, before everything changed. Before they became something else. Before they became this.

Izzy's expression didn't change, but her fingers tapped once against her glass. Barely noticeable. But Dom noticed.

She remembered, too.

For a second, he thought about saying something real. Something honest. 

But the moment passed before he could grab onto it.

Izzy drained the rest of her drink and stood. 

"Take care of yourself, Dom," she said, tossing a few bills on the counter. Then she glanced at Marco. 

"Both of you."

She walked out without looking back.

Marco exhaled, staring at the door. 

"You ever wonder what it would've been like," he said, his voice quieter now. "If things had gone different?"

Dom didn't answer because he did. More than he cared to admit.

The rain was still falling when Dom finally stepped outside.

The city stretched before him—bright and hollow, full of promises it never intended to keep.

He should've felt in control. 

But he didn't.

Somewhere, out there, something was shifting. 

The walls weren't just closing in—they were cracking. He could feel it. 

But he wasn't ready to admit it yet.

He lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke into the cold night. 

Then, slowly, he walked back to his car. 

And behind him, in the dim glow of Rosario's, the ghosts stayed exactly where they were. Waiting.