Chapter 13 – The First Step

The bar's backroom smelled like spilled whiskey and old cigar smoke, a relic of Dom's past that hadn't been touched since his downfall. Dust clung to the edges of the room, settling on cracked leather chairs and a scuffed-up poker table where fortunes had once been won—and lost. Outside, the flickering neon sign of the long-closed establishment cast an uneven glow through the blinds, its hum punctuating the silence. Distant sirens wailed, blending with the steady drip of water from a broken pipe somewhere in the walls. 

Dom stood by the window, watching the street below. His reflection stared back at him—weathered, haunted, but alive. This wasn't just a place; it was a memory. A reminder of who he used to be and what he'd lost. 

He exhaled slowly, running a hand over the stubble on his jaw. "This is where it starts," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. 

Behind him, Marco shifted uncomfortably, leaning against the wall as if afraid to sit down. 

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"You sure about this, Dom?" Marco asked, his voice rough with doubt. 

Dom didn't turn around. "What part don't you trust? Me? Or yourself?" 

Marco flinched, avoiding eye contact. He ran a finger along the edge of the table, tracing invisible lines. "Both, maybe." 

"Spit it out, Mack." 

"I don't know if I'm the guy you need anymore," Marco admitted, his words heavy with guilt. "I was drunk when you went down. You think I forgot that?" 

Dom finally turned, meeting Marco's gaze. "Yeah, I remember. But here's the thing—you're still standing. Still breathing. And if you can do that, then you can do this." 

Marco swallowed hard, shaking his head. "You got a plan? Or is this just you looking for blood?" 

Dom smirked, though there was no humor in it. "Blood's just the appetizer, Mack. Revenge is dessert." 

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Dom leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table. His tone was measured, deliberate. "Listen up, because I'm only saying this once. Vinnie thinks he owns this city now, but he's wrong. He built his empire on my ruins, and now I'm going to tear it apart brick by brick." 

Marco frowned. "And how exactly are we supposed to take him down? Last time I checked, we're two broke guys hiding in the shadows while he's got half the city eating out of his hand." 

"That's why we start small," Dom said, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He spread it out on the table—a map of the city, marked with notes in his handwriting. 

Marco squinted at it. "What am I looking at?" 

"A pressure point," Dom replied. "Vinnie's not invincible—he's stretched thin trying to hold onto everything I left behind. If we hit him where it hurts, even a little, he'll react. And reactions make people vulnerable." 

Marco hesitated. "So… what's the play?" 

Dom tapped one of the markers on the map. "That's a drug shipment coming in tonight. Not big enough to draw federal attention, but significant enough to piss off Vinnie. We steal it, disappear, and let him sweat." 

Marco blinked. "You want me to help you hijack a truckload of coke?" 

"Not just any truckload," Dom corrected. "One Vinnie personally ordered. When he realizes it's gone—and worse, figures out *who* took it—he'll lose his shit. That's when we strike again." 

Marco rubbed his temples, exhaling sharply. "Dom, this isn't some game. If we get caught…" 

"We won't," Dom interrupted, his voice firm. "Because I've already thought through every angle. You stick with me, Mack, and I swear—I'll keep us alive." 

For a moment, Marco said nothing. Then he nodded slowly, reluctantly. "Alright. What's next?" 

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The plan came together quickly. Lucky, ever-eager, joined them, bringing muscle and brains to the operation. They staked out the drop-off location—an abandoned warehouse near the docks, lit faintly by sodium lamps casting pools of yellow light across the pavement. 

As they waited, Marco kept glancing at Dom, searching for something—certainty, maybe, or reassurance. What he found instead was resolve. 

"This isn't just revenge, is it?" Marco asked quietly. 

"Nope," Dom answered without hesitation. "It's survival. Vinnie wants me dead. If I don't fight back, he wins. Simple as that." 

Lucky chimed in, grinning. "But fighting back doesn't mean playing fair, right?" 

Dom glanced at him, smirking. "Fair's for amateurs, kid. We're professionals." 

When the delivery arrived, it unfolded like clockwork—or almost. Two armed guards accompanied the truck, their guns slung casually across their shoulders. Too confident. Too careless. Exactly as Dom had predicted. 

They struck fast. Lucky handled the driver, slipping a chloroform-soaked rag over his face before he could even reach for his phone. Marco dealt with the first guard, catching him off guard with a swift punch to the gut. Dom took care of the second, disarming him with practiced ease before knocking him unconscious. 

Within minutes, the drugs were loaded into their van, and they were speeding away into the night. 

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Back at the safehouse, Dom poured himself a glass of whiskey, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat. Beside him, Marco sat slumped in a chair, staring at his hands. 

"You did good tonight," Dom said after a while. 

Marco snorted. "Good? I nearly tripped over my own feet." 

"You didn't freeze. That's progress." 

Marco looked up, his expression conflicted. "Progress toward what, Dom? Another fall?" 

Dom met his gaze steadily. "No. Progress toward making sure Vinnie never forgets who put him there." 

A beat passed. Then Marco nodded, though uncertainty lingered in his eyes. 

As Marco prepared to leave, Dom stopped him. "Mack, wait." 

Marco turned, raising an eyebrow. 

"Thanks," Dom said simply. 

For a second, Marco looked surprised. Then he gave a crooked smile. "Don't thank me yet. We're not done bleeding." 

After Marco left, Dom sat alone in the dim light, scrolling through his phone. A text popped up, startling him. 

Unknown Number: You're not as dead as I thought.

Dom's lips curled into a cold grin. 

"Welcome back, asshole," he muttered under his breath. 

Outside, the rain began to fall, washing away the dust of the past and clearing the path for the future. Somewhere out there, Vinnie Costa was already feeling the first ripple of unease. 

And deep in the shadows, Marco fought the urge to pour himself another drink, gripping the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white. Loyalty might be enough to bring him back—but would it be enough to keep him whole?