The rain had stopped, but the city still felt wet, like the streets were sweating out something foul. The gutters were swollen, carrying filth down into the sewers, where things that thrived in the dark waited for their turn at the surface.
It felt like an omen.
Dom Ricci sat in the dim glow of a single overhead light in one of his safehouses—an unmarked brownstone on the edge of town, tucked away from curious eyes and eager ears. It wasn't much. Just a quiet room with a scuffed-up table, a few chairs, and the kind of silence that made men uncomfortable.
The air was thick—cigar smoke, cheap cologne, and the metallic scent of sweat. Not just the kind from bad ventilation, but from men who knew they were about to be asked a question they didn't want to answer.
Dom let the silence stretch.
He'd learned early in this business that silence did more than words ever could.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"Someone's talking."
His voice was quiet. But it carried weight.
"I don't know who. I don't know why. But I know this—if we don't find the leak now, we're all dead men walking."
No one spoke.
Dom's gaze swept the table, searching for the first crack, the first twitch, the first sign of weakness.
Then his eyes landed on Marco.
-------------------
Marco looked up, bloodshot eyes meeting Dom's.
"You got something to say, Marco?" Dom asked, his voice level.
Marco exhaled through his nose. "You asking if I'm the rat?" His voice was rough, tired. Like he was done playing games.
Dom didn't answer right away. He let the question sit there, let Marco feel it.
"I don't want to believe it," Dom finally said. "But I need to hear you say it."
Marco scoffed, setting his glass down harder than necessary.
"If I was gonna sell you out, Dom," he said, voice flat, "I'd have done it years ago."
The room felt colder.
Dom nodded slowly, but the moment lingered—just long enough to leave a scar.
For a second, Dom saw the old Marco—the man who would've laughed off the accusation, who would've taken a swing if provoked. But this Marco was different. Broken. And maybe that breakage made him vulnerable.
"I trust you, Marco," Dom said softly, though the words tasted bitter in his mouth. Trust wasn't blind anymore—not after what was coming.
Marco didn't respond. He stared at the table, fingers tracing the condensation on his glass.
--------------------
Outside the safehouse, the cold night air was a relief. The meeting had left a weight on Dom's shoulders that he couldn't shake.
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to think.
That's when Vinnie stepped out, lighting a cigarette.
Rizzo followed close behind.
"You handled that well," Vinnie said, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. Too casual. Too smooth.
Dom felt something shift—something small, something easy to ignore.
He ignored it.
"You got a better idea?" Dom asked, watching Vinnie closely.
Vinnie shrugged, but it was a deliberate move, like he was setting a piece down on a chessboard.
"We don't wait," Vinnie said. "We go digging. Find the leak before they do real damage."
He flicked his cigarette, watching the embers scatter into the dark.
"We start with the weak links."
Rizzo hesitated. "You mean our guys?"
"I mean everyone," Vinnie said smoothly.
Dom's gaze hardened.
"You saying we start taking out our own men on a hunch?"
Vinnie smirked, but it wasn't the usual charming grin.
It was something else.
"You always taught me, Dom," he said. "Better to cut out an infection before it spreads."
Dom exhaled through his nose, considering. He trusted Vinnie—he always had.
But something about the way he said *we* instead of *you* gave Dom pause.
Vinnie wasn't just following orders anymore.
He was leading.
Dom nodded slowly. "Alright. But no moves unless I give the word."
Vinnie smiled. "Of course."
But Dom had the sudden feeling that Vinnie was already making moves of his own.
As Vinnie walked away, Dom watched him disappear into the shadows. For the first time, he wondered if Vinnie's ambition was sharper than his loyalty. Was this the same man who once toasted to their empire's future—or was he someone else entirely?
------------------
Detective Ray Calderone sat at his desk, the fluorescent lights above casting everything in a sickly glow.
The precinct smelled like bad coffee and regret.
He wasn't supposed to be here—he'd clocked out hours ago—but something kept him from leaving.
A manila envelope sat in front of him.
No return address. No name.
Just a message inside.
A list of numbers—account transfers. Addresses linked to Dom Ricci's businesses. And names.
Not enough to take Dom down.
But enough to make him bleed.
Calderone flipped through the pages, frowning. Something about it didn't sit right.
"Whoever sent this," he murmured, "they weren't dumping everything. Just enough to keep Dom looking over his shoulder."
He leaned back in his chair, cigarette dangling from his lips.
This wasn't someone trying to run.
This was someone setting the stage for something bigger.
Calderone tapped his pen against the desk, thinking. If the information was true—and it checked out so far—it meant someone inside Dom's circle was playing both sides. But why? And for whom?
For the first time, Calderone considered whether bringing Dom down might actually destabilize the city further. Maybe Dom wasn't the problem. Maybe he was just the symptom.
-----------------
Back at the safehouse, Dom stood in the dim light, staring at the table where the meeting had taken place.
The whiskey glass Marco had left behind still had a half-melted ice cube in it.
For the first time in a long time, Dom felt something unfamiliar.
Doubt.
He had built his empire on loyalty.
He had believed in his men.
But someone had already betrayed him.
His jaw clenched.
He wasn't just hunting a rat.
He was bleeding from a wound he couldn't even see.
His fingers drummed against the table.
"One of you's lying to me," Dom murmured under his breath.
He exhaled, shaking his head, pushing the thought away.
Because if he started doubting the people closest to him—
Then he had already lost.
Dom closed his eyes, remembering the faces around the table. Rizzo's nervous glances, Tony and Sal's stiff postures, Marco's haunted expression. And then there was Vinnie—the one man who seemed completely unfazed. Too calm. Too sure.
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut: What if the traitor wasn't some low-level grunt or desperate lackey? What if it was someone higher up? Someone trusted?
If that were true… Dom wouldn't just lose his empire. He'd lose himself.