The city pulsed beneath Dom Ricci's feet, alive with vice and violence, a kingdom built on debts unpaid and favors unforgotten. From the second-floor balcony of La Notte, his empire stretched before him—a sea of suits and sequins, of whispered deals and desperate hands clutching half-empty glasses. The music swayed like a slow con, the scent of expensive liquor mixing with the metallic edge of something darker.
Above the din of laughter and clinking glasses, Dom could hear the faint hum of tension in the air, a reminder that this world thrived not just on pleasure but on power—and fear. Every smile here carried a hidden blade, every handshake a potential betrayal.
This was his world. And tonight, it belonged to him.
Below, the main floor of the nightclub was chaos disguised as elegance. Politicians sat shoulder to shoulder with criminals, actors shared drinks with bookies, and no one asked questions because the wrong question could end a man's life. La Notte wasn't just another nightclub; it was a throne room with velvet ropes.
The bass thrummed through the marble floors, syncopating with the click of polished leather shoes and whispered negotiations. Deals were brokered in the flick of a cigarette lighter, fortunes decided between the rim of a glass and the turn of a card. Power hummed in the air, thick as the cigar smoke curling toward the chandeliers.
Dom leaned on the railing, a whiskey glass in his hand, his reflection caught in the dark glass of the window beyond. He looked like a man in control—because he was.
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Then Vinnie Costa stepped up beside him, flashing that easy, too-white grin.
"Hell of a night, huh, Dom?"
Dom didn't answer right away. He liked to let the silence settle, to make men wonder if they'd said too much.
Vinnie was sharp, ambitious. Too eager when he thought no one was looking. He had the posture of a man who thought he'd already won, but Dom had been in this business long enough to know what ambition looked like just before it turned to treason.
"You keep counting my money with your eyes, Vinnie?" Dom finally said, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "Or just the bodies that put it there?"
Vinnie chuckled, running a hand through his dark hair. "Come on, boss. You know me. I don't count, I add."
A smooth answer. Almost too smooth. But Dom noticed how Vinnie's fingers drummed nervously against his glass, betraying the confidence in his voice.
Dom smirked, letting the silence stretch between them. A test, subtle but clear. Who blinked first?
Vinnie exhaled, shifting his weight. "Couple of our guys almost cracked some idiot's skull earlier. Kid tried skipping out on a tab. I told 'em to handle it respectfully."
Dom gave a slow nod. "Respect is the only thing keeping us all from the wolves, Vinnie. You remember that?"
Vinnie held his gaze a beat too long. "Course."
But Dom saw it—just a flicker, a hesitation beneath the charm. A crack in the glass.
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Marco Vasquez was already drunk when Dom found him slumped in a booth near the back. The years had rounded his shoulders, softened his jawline. Once, he had been Dom's best enforcer. A man built like a battering ram, fear carved into his reputation. Now, he was just a man trying to drink away the weight of his past.
"Marco," Dom said, sliding into the seat across from him. "How many tonight?"
Marco lifted his glass, sloshing the bourbon inside. "Not enough."
Dom studied him for a moment, then plucked the glass from his hand. "Then let's stop before it is."
Marco huffed a laugh. "What, you babysitting me now?"
"I'm keeping my oldest friend from drowning," Dom corrected. "You got a problem with that?"
Marco looked at him then, something tired in his eyes. "Not yet."
Dom placed the glass back down, his fingers tapping once against the table. A silent promise. Marco wasn't gone. Not yet.
For a brief moment, their gazes locked, and Dom felt a pang of regret. How had it come to this? Marco had once been his rock, his confidant. Now, he was a shadow of himself, haunted by choices neither of them could undo.
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Luca "Lucky" Moretti was waiting by the bar, eager, green, pretending he belonged among men twice his age. He idolized Dom, wanted in so badly he could taste it. Dom saw himself in the kid—young, hungry, reckless.
"Boss," Lucky greeted him, straightening up like a soldier at attention. "I been waiting to talk to you."
Dom sipped his drink. "Then talk."
"I wanna earn."
Dom tilted his head. "You been earning."
"Not like that. I wanna really earn."
Dom studied him. Lucky was sharp, but sharp men cut themselves just as often as others.
"You ever kill a man, Lucky?"
Lucky hesitated. "Not yet."
"Then you ain't ready for what 'really earning' looks like."
Lucky swallowed, his pride flaring. "I won't let you down, Dom."
Dom smirked, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "That's what they all say, kid."
As Lucky walked away, Dom watched him go, a mix of amusement and concern crossing his face. The kid had fire, sure—but fire burned hot, and sometimes it consumed those who wielded it.
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At the bar, just past the reach of the club's golden glow, Detective Ray Calderone nursed a glass of cheap scotch. He didn't belong here, but that was the thing about corruption—you didn't have to belong to be part of it.
He watched Dom from across the room, a cigarette burning between his fingers. He knew what Dom was, what he controlled, what kind of power ran through his veins. But the funny thing? The city was worse without men like him.
He could take Dom down. He should take Dom down.
But if the city fell apart without him—who was the real villain?
Calderone exhaled smoke and signaled for another drink.
His thoughts drifted to the recent uptick in violence. Something was changing in the underworld, and Calderone couldn't shake the feeling that Dom was at the center of it. Or maybe… someone else entirely.
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Dom was back on the balcony when he felt her presence before he saw her.
Izzy DeLuca.
She stood near the entrance, half in shadow, her dark eyes scanning the room. She hadn't belonged to him for years, but some ties never really broke. She caught his gaze from across the club and held it, a silent conversation passing between them.
Then, as the music swelled and the room spun in its quiet deals and unseen debts, she murmured just loud enough for him to hear:
"The past doesn't stay buried, Dom. You of all people should know that."
Then she turned and walked away.
Dom's grip tightened around his glass.
She was watching. That meant something.
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Vinnie stepped beside him again, swirling a glass of whiskey like he owned the place.
"Funny thing about kings," Vinnie mused, glancing over the club. "They never know when the fall is coming."
Dom didn't look at him. He just took a slow sip of his drink.
"The city bends," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "To the man who holds the leash."
He turned then, finally locking eyes with Vinnie.
"Right now, that man is me."
Vinnie smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. For a fleeting moment, Dom wondered if Vinnie truly believed those words—or if he was already plotting the day they wouldn't be true.