Chapter 8: Dead Men Don’t Stay Dead

The motel room reeked of stale cigarettes, sweat, and cheap disinfectant—a chemical attempt at cleanliness that did nothing to hide the rot underneath.

It was a graveyard for forgotten men. The kind of place where ghosts whispered through thin walls, where every stain on the carpet had a story no one wanted to tell. The flickering neon sign outside cast sickly red light through the half-drawn blinds, pulsing like a dying heartbeat.

And Dom Ricci was just another corpse haunting it.

He lay sprawled on the sagging mattress, staring at the ceiling, the glow of the television painting shadows across his bruised face. The TV murmured static, a low, ceaseless hum that mirrored the chaos in his head.

His body felt like it had been stitched together with broken glass. 

Ribs cracked. 

Shoulder burning. 

Knuckles swollen from a fight he didn't remember starting.

The aftermath of Fulton still clung to him—the smell of blood and gunpowder, the sound of Benny hitting the pavement. Everything had gone to hell. The walls were closing in.

Then— 

A knock at the door. 

Dom didn't move. Probably the night clerk looking for his cut. Or some two-bit hustler knocking on the wrong door. 

Then— 

The knock came again. Louder. More insistent. 

Dom exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face. "Not tonight." 

But the voice that followed froze him mid-breath. 

"Dom. It's me." 

Marco. 

For a second, Dom debated not opening the door. Letting him stand out there in the cold, forcing him to walk away like everyone else had. But something in Marco's voice… Something in the way it cracked at the edges… 

Dom exhaled. Unlatched the chain. 

The door creaked open a fraction. 

Marco Vasquez stood on the other side, looking like hell. Bloodshot eyes. A fresh bruise blooming on his cheek. Clothes wrinkled and stained, smelling like whiskey and regret. 

Neither man spoke. 

Then Marco huffed a bitter laugh. "Jesus, Dom. You look like shit." 

Dom let out a humorless chuckle, stepping back. "Yeah? You don't look so pretty yourself, Mack."

---

The motel door clicked shut, trapping them in the silence. 

Marco's eyes flicked over the room. The empty bottles. The cigarette butts crushed into a cheap glass ashtray. The TV casting flickering light over untouched food, going cold on the table. 

Then he looked at Dom. Saw the way he carried himself—like a man walking the tightrope between life and oblivion. 

Marco swallowed hard. "I heard what happened at Fulton." 

Dom didn't respond. Didn't move. 

Marco ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. "I tried calling. Tried finding you. But I—I didn't know if you were…" 

His voice faltered. *Dead.* The word didn't need to be said. 

Dom finally met his gaze. Expression blank. 

Marco's hands clenched at his sides. "I should've been there." 

Dom's jaw twitched. "Where were you?" 

Marco flinched. "Drunk. Passed out in some dive bar." His fists clenched. 

"I let you down, Dom. I know that." 

The silence between them thickened. Suffocating. 

Then Marco reached into his pocket. Dom tensed—instinct kicking in. 

But Marco didn't pull a gun. Instead, he pulled out a small, tarnished silver pocket watch. Held it out. 

Dom frowned. "What the hell is this?" 

Marco's throat bobbed. "My father's watch. The only thing I got left of him." 

Dom's jaw tightened. He knew what that meant. Knew what Marco was offering—a piece of his past, a debt he could never repay. 

Dom stared at it. Didn't move. Didn't reach for it. 

"I don't need your money, Mack." 

Marco shook his head. "This ain't about money." 

He pressed the watch into Dom's palm. "It's about doing something right for once." 

Dom stared at the watch. Memories surfaced. Marco's father—a man who had preached loyalty like scripture.

Late nights spent planning their empire, swearing they'd never end up like the old men before them. And now here they were. Broken. Betrayed. Clinging to ghosts. 

Dom reached out—but not for the watch. Instead, he closed Marco's fingers around it. Shook his head. 

"Keep it." 

Marco's eyes shimmered. "Then what do you need?" 

Dom lit a cigarette, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling. 

"I need you sober." 

Marco exhaled shakily. "I can do that." 

Dom flicked ash into the tray. Didn't blink. 

"We'll see." 

For a moment, neither man spoke. The weight of their shared history hung heavy in the air.

Marco's guilt clashed with Dom's anger, creating a fragile bridge between them. Could trust be rebuilt? Or was this just another hollow promise?

----------------------

The silence between them wasn't as heavy anymore. Marco wiped his face, voice steadier now. 

"So… what now?" 

Dom leaned back in the chair, his gaze drifting to the television. A gangster in a black suit filled the screen, raising a glass in a silent toast. Then—a gunshot. Blood sprayed across the screen. 

Dom smirked. He mirrored the gesture. 

"Now?" 

He set his empty glass down with a quiet clink. 

"Now, we take back what's ours." 

As the words left his lips, Dom felt a spark ignite within him. Not hope—not yet—but determination. If Vinnie thought he could destroy everything Dom had built, he was wrong. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot. 

Marco hesitated, studying Dom's face. There was fire behind those eyes again, even if it burned dimly. 

"What's the plan?" Marco asked cautiously. 

Dom's smirk widened, though there was no humor in it. "One step at a time, Mack. First, we clean ourselves up. Then, we start cleaning house." 

-----------------

Outside, the rain kept falling, mixing with the low hum of static from the TV. Somewhere out there, Vinnie was still breathing. 

Not for long. 

Inside, Marco shifted uncomfortably. "You think he knows?" 

Dom tilted his head, lighting another cigarette. "Vinnie always knows. That's why he's dangerous." 

Marco's grip tightened on the edge of the chair. "Then how do we beat him?" 

Dom exhaled smoke, his gaze distant. "We don't fight him with his weapons. We hit him where it hurts. Where he least expects it." 

Marco nodded slowly, though doubt lingered in his eyes. 

Dom noticed. "If you're not ready for this, Marco, walk away now. I won't blame you. But if you stay, you better mean it. No more drinking. No more running. Just focus." 

Marco squared his shoulders. "I'm in, Dom. Whatever it takes." 

Dom gave him a curt nod. For the first time since Fulton, he believed it. 

-------------------

As the rain pounded against the windowpanes, Dom allowed himself a rare moment of reflection. This wasn't just about revenge—it was about proving to himself that he hadn't become the monster everyone thought he was. 

Marco watched him quietly, sensing the shift. 

"You really think we can win this?" Marco asked softly. 

Dom turned, meeting his gaze. "Winning isn't about survival, Mack. It's about making sure the people who crossed us pay. Even if it costs us everything." 

The answer sent a chill down Marco's spine. It wasn't the Dom he remembered—the man who once valued loyalty above all else. But maybe that Dom was already dead. 

Still, Marco nodded. "Let's finish what we started." 

Dom smirked, though there was no warmth in it. "That's my boy." 

--------------

The room seemed smaller now, the oppressive atmosphere replaced by a tentative sense of purpose. Outside, the storm raged on, mirroring the turmoil inside both men. 

Vinnie might have taken Dom's empire, but he hadn't taken his will. And as long as Dom breathed, there would be consequences. 

Somewhere in the city, Vinnie sat smug in his newfound power, unaware that the tide was turning. 

And when it did, it wouldn't just wash away the remnants of Dom's old world—it would carve a new path forward. One paved with vengeance, redemption, and the ashes of betrayal.