Chapter 14 – Allies in Shadows

The air inside the boxing gym was thick with sweat and leather, the faint tang of blood lingering where no amount of cleaning could erase it.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their harsh glow reflecting off the polished surface of the heavy bag swinging lazily in the center of the room.

It was after hours—no trainers shouting encouragement, no fighters pounding gloves—but the echoes of past battles still hung in the space like ghosts.

Dom Ricci stood near the entrance, his silhouette framed by the dim light spilling through a cracked window.

His eyes scanned the room, searching for any sign of movement. This place hadn't changed much since he last set foot here—a decade ago, maybe more.

Back then, it had been a proving ground for young prospects looking to climb the ranks of the underworld. Now, it felt like a relic of a time that no longer existed.

A door creaked open at the far end of the gym, and Dom turned sharply, his hand instinctively brushing the holster beneath his jacket. 

Out stepped Salvatore "Sal" Moretti, a man who once ruled half the docks before deciding neutrality suited him better after Dom's fall.

Sal was older now, his shoulders slightly stooped, but his sharp eyes carried the same calculating gleam they always had.

He wore a plain gray hoodie over jeans, blending into the shadows as if trying to disappear.

"You're late," Dom said, his voice steady despite the tension coiled tight in his chest.

Sal smirked, stepping closer. "You're alive. That's all that matters."

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Sal stopped a few feet away, crossing his arms. His gaze swept over Dom, taking in every detail—the stubble on his jaw, the faint bruise under his eye, the way his hands twitched ever so slightly when he thought no one was watching. 

"Look at you," Sal mused. "Still standing after everything fell apart. Impressive." 

Dom tilted his head, unbothered by the jab. "I'm not here for compliments, Sal. You know why I'm here." 

Sal chuckled, leaning against the nearest punching bag. It swayed gently, humming against the silence. "Do I? Last I heard, you were six feet under. Guess Vinnie didn't finish the job." 

"That's right," Dom replied, his tone flat. "And now I need your help." 

Sal raised an eyebrow. "Help? Or leverage?" 

"It depends on how you see it," Dom shot back, moving closer. "But let me make this clear—I'm not asking for charity. I'm offering a partnership." 

Sal exhaled slowly, studying Dom like a chess player evaluating his opponent's next move. "Partnerships require trust, Dom. And trust? That's something neither of us has much of these days." 

To emphasize the difficulty of rebuilding trust, Sal lets his gaze drift toward Marco, who stands near the doorway, shifting uncomfortably. "Your friend there doesn't exactly scream confidence either. Look at him—he can barely hold himself upright." 

Marco stiffened, glaring daggers at Sal, but Dom held up a hand, silencing him. "He's here because I trust him. If that bothers you, we'll leave." 

Sal laughed, shaking his head. "You haven't changed, have you? Still thinking loyalty will save you." 

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"I never said loyalty would save me," Dom countered, pulling out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. On it were names, addresses, and numbers—all tied to Vinnie's operations. "This might." 

Sal unfolded the paper, his brow furrowing as he scanned the contents. "Impressive. Where'd you get this?" 

"Let's just say my sources are reliable," Dom replied smoothly. "Point is, Vinnie's empire isn't as solid as everyone thinks.

He's paranoid, reckless, and making mistakes left and right. You think he'll stop once he consolidates power? No. He'll come for you next." 

Sal snorted. "Big talk for a dead man walking." 

"It's not talk," Dom snapped, stepping forward. "It's fact. Vinnie won't rest until he controls everything—and everyone.

You want to sit around waiting for him to turn on you, be my guest. But if you're smart, you'll join me while you still can." 

Sal leaned back, considering. Then he grinned, though there was no warmth in it. "So what do you want, Dom? Another favor? Another deal?" 

"I want you to hit one of Vinnie's shipments," Dom said, his voice low and controlled. "Not big enough to draw federal attention, but significant enough to send a message. Make him sweat." 

"And why should I risk myself for you?" Sal asked, his tone hardening. 

"Because revenge tastes sweet," Dom answered, his lips curling into a cold smile. "And because if you don't act soon, Vinnie will cut you out entirely. You think he cares about old allies? About tradition? About honor? Wake up, Sal. He only cares about control." 

Sal stared at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Alright. Let's say I agree. What's the catch?" 

"The catch?" Dom echoed, smirking. "You prove yourself first. Pull off the job, and we talk terms. Fail, and consider this meeting null." 

Sal's grin widened, dangerous now. "Fair enough. But remember, Dom—you're not the only one who knows how to play games." 

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As they finalized the details, Dom couldn't shake the feeling that someone else was listening.

Every shadow seemed deeper, every sound sharper. Was it paranoia, or was someone truly watching? 

Mid-conversation, Dom noticed a faint rustle behind the rolled-up mat in the corner.

He glanced casually in its direction, catching sight of a glint of metal—a watch, perhaps, or a gun barrel.

Instead of reacting immediately, he kept talking, letting his fingers tap rhythmically against his thigh—a subtle signal to Marco to investigate without drawing attention. 

When Marco returned moments later, shaking his head almost imperceptibly, Dom knew the coast was clear. For now. 

But the unease lingered. Someone had been close enough to overhear. Someone who might already be reporting back to Vinnie. 

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The deal was sealed with a handshake—firm but brief, lacking the warmth of true camaraderie. As Sal walked away, disappearing into the night, Dom remained rooted to the spot, staring at the empty doorway. 

Marco broke the silence. "You think he'll actually go through with it?" 

Dom shrugged, lighting a cigarette. "Doesn't matter. Either way, Vinnie'll notice. And noticing means reacting." 

Marco hesitated. "What if he double-crosses us?" 

"He won't," Dom said confidently. "Not yet. Sal's too smart to burn bridges unless he's sure which side will win. Besides…" He exhaled smoke, his voice dropping lower. "…if he tries anything funny, I've got plenty of dirt on him to bury him six feet deep." 

Marco grunted, unconvinced. "Still feels risky." 

"Life's risky, Mack," Dom muttered. "Especially ours." 

As they turned to leave, Dom caught movement out of the corner of his eye—a figure slipping into the shadows beyond the parking lot. Without missing a beat, he sent Marco to check it out while feigning disinterest. 

Moments later, Marco reappeared, shaking his head again. Whoever it was, they'd vanished. 

On the drive home, Dom received a text from an unknown number: 

Unknown Number: Careful who you trust, Ricci.

His grip tightened around the steering wheel, veins popping in his knuckles. 

"Whoever that was," Marco asked cautiously, "they're onto us." 

"Maybe," Dom replied, his mind racing. "Or maybe they're just fishing for information. Either way, it doesn't change our plan." 

But as the rain began to fall, washing away the dust of the day's events, Dom couldn't ignore the nagging doubt gnawing at him. Sal had agreed, yes—but alliances in the underworld weren't built on promises; they were forged in fire. 

And fires burned hot—or consumed everything in their path. 

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Back at the safehouse, Marco paced nervously, muttering about the risks of trusting Sal. Dom ignored him, scrolling through his phone, piecing together fragments of information. Somewhere out there, Vinnie Costa was spinning his wheels, tightening his grip, cutting loose anyone who looked suspicious. 

And yet, whispers traveled fast. 

If Vinnie learned Dom was rallying support… 

The thought trailed off, unfinished. 

Meanwhile, in another part of town, Sal sat alone in his office, staring at the list Dom had given him. Beside him, a burner phone buzzed softly. Picking it up, he dialed a number stored under the label "V." 

"Yeah?" came the voice on the other end, clipped and impatient. 

"It's Sal," he said, his tone measured. "Ricci's back. And he's making moves." 

There was a pause. Then: "Details." 

Sal hesitated, weighing his words carefully. "He wants me to hit one of your shipments. Says it's payback for old debts." 

Another pause. Longer this time. When Vinnie spoke again, his voice carried a note of danger. "Tell him… we'll see." 

Sal ended the call, exhaling heavily. Trust was a luxury neither of them could afford—not anymore. 

Outside, the rain pounded against the windows, drowning out the distant hum of sirens. Somewhere in the city, two kings prepared for war. And somewhere else, a queen waited patiently, her cards close to her chest.