Chapter 6: Empire Cracks

The warehouse smelled like salt, rust, and old lies—the kind that soaked into the concrete and never really left. Rain dripped from a crack in the ceiling, landing in slow, steady beats against the floor. Outside, the docks stretched into the night, the city's lights distant, blurred by fog. The waves lapped against the piers, an eerie rhythm to the silence inside.

It was the kind of place where things disappeared—cargo, bodies, trust.

And right now, Dom Ricci wasn't sure which of those would be lost tonight.

He stood at the head of the table, hands braced against the scarred wood, knuckles white. Around him sat his most trusted men—Vinnie, Marco, Rizzo, Sal, Tony, a few others.

Faces he had known for years.

Faces he wasn't sure he could trust anymore.

And that uncertainty was eating him alive.

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"We got a rat," Dom said, his voice low, tight.

No one spoke.

The air was thick—cigar smoke, cheap cologne, the tension of men sitting too close together with too many unsaid things between them.

Dom let his gaze move across the table, searching for the first crack.

"We lock everything down." His voice carried weight, each word deliberate. "No more side deals. No more loose talk. You got something to say, you say it to me. Anyone caught moving without my approval—"

He let the words hang.

The meaning was clear.

Marco let out a dry chuckle. 

"So that's it?" he said, leaning back in his chair. "We just sit around and wait for this rat to come forward?"

Dom's gaze snapped to him. 

"You got a better idea?"

Marco didn't flinch. Instead, he swirled the whiskey in his glass, his stare too calm, too knowing. 

"Yeah," he said, tilting his head slightly. "Stop looking for shadows. Whoever's talking, they ain't in this room."

Dom's pulse ticked in his jaw. 

"You sound real sure about that."

Marco smirked, taking a slow sip. 

"Maybe 'cause I still got a little faith in the guys who built this thing with you."

Dom didn't blink. Didn't move. 

Then he laughed—low, humorless. 

"Faith?" He leaned forward, voice razor-sharp. 

"Faith gets men killed. Faith gets you put in a trunk, cut open from neck to navel because you trusted the wrong guy."

Marco's smirk faded. 

"Or maybe paranoia gets you killed," he shot back.

The words landed hard.

The room went still.

For a moment, the only sound was the rain dripping onto the floor.

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One second, Dom was standing still. 

The next, his fist connected with Marco's face.

The chair scraped against the concrete as Marco stumbled back, blood trailing from his lip. But Dom wasn't done. 

He grabbed Marco by the collar and drove him into the table, sending glasses shattering onto the floor. 

"Say that again!" Dom roared.

Marco gasped, stunned, his hands shoving at Dom's chest, but Dom held him there, breath ragged, pulse hammering. 

No one moved. 

No one dared move. 

Until— 

"All right." 

Vinnie's voice cut through the tension like a blade. 

Calm. Controlled. 

And authoritative. 

Dom felt hands on his shoulders—firm, steady. 

"That's enough, Dom." 

The grip wasn't aggressive. 

But it wasn't gentle, either. 

Dom's rage faltered, just for a second. He let go, shoving Marco back. 

Marco wiped his mouth, staring at him—not with anger, not with fear. 

With disappointment. 

Dom turned, chest heaving, locking eyes with Vinnie. 

The room was watching him. 

And for the first time, Dom wasn't sure if they saw their leader anymore. 

As Dom stepped away, the silence stretched, heavy with unspoken questions. Was Dom losing control? Or had he already lost it? The men exchanged uneasy glances, their loyalty wavering under the weight of doubt.

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The heavy metal door slammed shut behind Dom. 

For a beat, the warehouse was silent. 

Then Vinnie exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He turned to the men, his tone measured. 

"Let's all take a breath." 

Marco let out a bitter laugh. 

"That the Dom you remember?" 

No one answered. 

Rizzo shifted uncomfortably. "He's just under pressure." 

Vinnie's gaze locked onto him. 

"Yeah." His voice carried authority, cutting through the unease. "And what happens when that pressure makes him crack?" 

Rizzo hesitated. 

That pause was all Vinnie needed. 

"We need to be smart about this," Vinnie continued. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried weight. 

"Dom's built a hell of an empire. But we all gotta make sure it doesn't fall apart." 

He let the words settle. Then he looked at Marco. 

"You all right?" 

Marco exhaled, nodding. 

"Yeah." 

Vinnie clapped a hand on his shoulder, a silent *I got you.* Then he turned to the others. 

"Get cleaned up. We move forward like nothing happened." 

Just like that—without raising his voice, without making a demand—Vinnie had taken control. 

For the first time, the men felt the shift. 

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Later, outside near the water, Vinnie and Rizzo stood in the cold. The city's lights flickered in the distance, distorted by the mist rolling in off the bay.

Rizzo lit a cigarette, his hand shaking just slightly. 

"You really think Dom's losing it?" 

Vinnie exhaled, watching the water. 

"I think he ain't thinking straight. And if he ain't thinking straight, that means we gotta." 

Rizzo hesitated again. 

Vinnie caught it. 

"You got doubts, Riz?" 

Rizzo exhaled smoke, avoiding his gaze. 

"I just don't know where this is going." 

Vinnie smiled. 

But there was no warmth in it. 

"Yeah, you do." 

Rizzo swallowed, glancing back toward the warehouse. Toward the door Dom had slammed through just minutes ago. 

And for the first time, he wasn't sure if Dom Ricci was still the winning bet. 

Vinnie's smile lingered, a calculated expression that masked his true thoughts. If Dom couldn't hold the empire together, someone else would have to step up—and Vinnie knew exactly who that someone was.

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Dom sat alone in his car, staring at his hands. 

They were still shaking. 

He lit a cigarette, inhaling deep, willing the tremor to stop. 

They used to listen because they respected me. 

The flame flickered at the end of his cigarette, casting brief, jagged shadows against the windshield. 

Now I can't tell if it's fear or something worse. 

He took another drag, exhaling slowly. 

Then his phone buzzed. 

A text. 

From an unknown number. 

You're losing them. 

Dom's breath stilled. 

The cigarette burned between his fingers, forgotten. 

Outside, the city stretched before him, vast and merciless. 

And for the first time—he wondered if it was already too late. 

Dom stared at the screen, the message taunting him. Who sent it? One of his men? Someone closer than he imagined? The thought clawed at him, digging deeper into the cracks forming in his confidence. 

If this was a test, he wasn't sure he could pass.