Chapter 16 – Paranoia Sets In
Vinnie Costa's penthouse was a fortress of opulence, its gilded surfaces and plush furnishings designed to project power. But tonight, the space felt suffocating.
Thick velvet curtains blocked out the city lights, plunging the room into an artificial twilight. Security cameras lined the walls like sentinels, their red LED eyes blinking in the dim light.
Even the air seemed heavier, thick with the scent of whiskey and cigar smoke that clung to everything—his clothes, his skin, his thoughts.
The ticking of an expensive clock on the mantel marked time he didn't have. Each second stretched longer than the last, each minute bringing new fears, new doubts. Vinnie sat at his desk, surrounded by a whiteboard covered in scribbled notes and circled names. His pen moved restlessly, crossing out one face after another.
*Who's loyal? Who's a traitor? Who's already working for Dom?*
He stared at the board, his mind racing. Fulton's raid, Pasqual's murder, and the whispers of Dom's survival gnawed at him like rats in the walls. He barely ate, barely slept. Every shadow held a threat, every sound carried meaning.
A sudden noise—a creak of the floorboards—made him freeze. Slowly, he reached for the gun tucked beneath his desk. For a moment, he thought he saw movement outside the window. A figure watching him. But when he squinted, it was gone. Just his imagination—or maybe not.
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Vinnie poured himself another drink, his hands trembling slightly as he filled the crystal glass to the brim. He downed half of it in one gulp, the burn doing little to dull the ache in his chest.
His phone buzzed incessantly with reports from informants, updates from lieutenants, pleas from allies. All of them wanted something—protection, assurance, answers—but Vinnie couldn't focus. Every message felt like a trap, every call a test.
He rewound security footage for the third time, studying the same clip over and over. A man walking past the building, glancing up briefly. Was it nothing? Or was it someone waiting for the right moment to strike?
a waiter spilling water, a guard shifting uncomfortably during a shift change. These small incidents spiral in his mind, fueling his growing distrust.
Then came the breaking point. His bodyguard, Rocco (one of the few men left from Dom's old crew), entered unannounced, carrying a tray of food.
"Boss, you haven't eaten all day," Rocco said softly, setting the tray down.
Vinnie spun around, his hand instinctively going for the gun on his hip. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Rocco froze, confusion etched across his face. "I… I brought you dinner."
Vinnie laughed bitterly, lowering the weapon but not holstering it. "Dinner, huh? Convenient. How do I know it's not poisoned?"
Rocco blinked, unsure how to respond. "Boss, I swear—"
"I don't want your excuses!" Vinnie snapped, waving him away. "Get out. And next time, knock before you walk into my goddamn office."
As Rocco retreated, Vinnie sank back into his chair, gripping the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white. He wasn't safe—not even here. Not even among his own men.
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Mira slipped into the penthouse like a ghost, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor. She wore a sleek black dress that hugged her curves, her dark hair falling loose around her shoulders. To anyone else, she looked calm, collected. But to Vinnie, her very presence unsettled him.
"You look tired, Vinnie," she said, pouring herself a glass of bourbon without asking permission.
Vinnie glared at her, his jaw tightening. "Tired? Try paranoid. Try scared."
Mira raised an eyebrow, sipping her drink slowly. "Scared of what? Yourself? Or Ricci?"
Vinnie slammed his fist on the desk, making the glasses rattle. "Both! Dammit, Mira, I did everything right. I took what was mine. I crushed the competition. So why does it feel like I'm losing?"
She tilted her head, studying him like a predator sizing up its prey. "Because you're not wrong to be worried. But maybe you're not worried enough."
Vinnie frowned, leaning forward. "What do you mean?"
Mira set her glass down carefully, her voice low and measured. "Think about it, Vinnie. Sera Rossi. She was Dom's for years. And now she's yours? That easy?"
Vinnie hesitated, running a finger along the rim of his glass. "She swore loyalty. What else can I ask for?"
Mira smirked. "Loyalty doesn't stick when the winds shift, Vin. Tony Mancini? He's loyal… but only to power. And what happens when he thinks you're losing yours?"
Vinnie's pulse quickened. "Tony wouldn't dare cross me."
"Wouldn't he?" Mira countered smoothly. "And then there's Rizzo. He says the right things. But what if he's playing both sides?"
With each name, Vinnie grew more agitated, pacing the room like a caged animal. His grip on the glass tightened until it cracked in his hand, shards slicing into his palm. Blood dripped onto the carpet, but he didn't seem to notice.
her deliberate pauses, the way she lets her words sink in before continuing. Her calm demeanor contrasts sharply with Vinnie's unraveling state, emphasizing her role as a puppet master pulling strings behind the scenes.
Finally, Vinnie stopped, turning to face her. "You think everyone's against me?"
Mira shrugged, her expression neutral. "Not everyone. Just the ones who matter."
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That night, Vinnie orchestrated a fake test—a scenario designed to expose traitors within his ranks. It started with a leak: false information about a shipment arriving at an abandoned warehouse. Then, he sent teams to monitor the site, watching through binoculars as his men reacted.
Some hesitated. Others ran. One lieutenant, Giuseppe, lingered too long, taking calls on his burner phone. When questioned later, he claimed it was personal business—but Vinnie wasn't convinced.
"You had a choice," Vinnie growled, standing over Giuseppe in the dim light of the garage. "Run or hold your ground. You chose neither."
Giuseppe swallowed hard, sweat beading on his forehead. "Boss, I swear—"
Vinnie cut him off, raising a hand. "No more lies. No more chances."
Before Giuseppe could finish his plea, Vinnie drew his gun and fired, the shot echoing through the empty space. Blood splattered against the concrete, mingling with oil stains and forgotten regrets.
The remaining crew stood frozen, staring at their boss in stunned silence. Public humiliation. A violent beating. A sudden execution. Whatever they were expecting, this exceeded it.
Other lieutenants exchanging uneasy glances, guards whispering in corners, alliances fracturing under the weight of fear. This isn't just about Giuseppe—it's about sending a message. But messages come at a cost.
When the dust settled, Vinnie turned to the crowd, his voice steady despite the chaos. "Anyone else thinking about crossing me? Now's the time to speak up."
Silence answered him.
Good.
But deep down, Vinnie knew better. Silence meant nothing.
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After everyone left, Vinnie returned to his office, locking the door behind him. The penthouse felt emptier than ever, its luxurious trappings mocking him with their superficiality. He sat in front of the window, staring at his reflection in the glass.
All he saw was a dead man.
"I won," he whispered to himself, though the words tasted bitter. "I won."
But he didn't believe it. Not really.
He refilled his glass, letting the amber liquid spill over the rim. As he drank, the whiskey burned hot in his throat, tasting less like alcohol and more like blood.
Somewhere in the darkness, Mira watched silently, her lips curling into a faint smile. She hadn't lifted a finger, yet the cracks in Vinnie's empire were spreading faster than ever.
Outside, the city pulsed with life, oblivious to the storm brewing inside the penthouse. But storms always found their targets eventually.
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Hours passed. The clock ticked louder, each second dragging heavier than the last. Vinnie paced the room, muttering to himself, circling names on the whiteboard. His fingers brushed against the trigger of his gun, a comforting weight in his pocket.
Suddenly, his phone buzzed. An unknown number.
Unknown Number: They're coming for you, Vinnie.
His breath hitched, adrenaline surging through his veins. Who was they? Dom? Someone else? Did it matter?
He dialed Rizzo's number immediately. "Find out who sent this. Now."
Rizzo's voice was hesitant. "Boss, it might be nothing—"
"Nothing gets people killed, Rizzo!" Vinnie barked, slamming the phone down.
Alone again, he stared at the window, his reflection distorted by the rain streaking down the glass. The city stretched below him, alive and indifferent. Somewhere out there, Dom Ricci was moving. Watching. Waiting.
And Vinnie? He was bleeding out slowly, cutting himself with every reckless decision.
"The whiskey tastes like blood," Vinnie muttered, draining the glass. "Maybe because that's all I've got left."