The bass from Lux pulsed through the walls, a steady heartbeat masking whispered deals, stolen glances, and silent betrayals. From the VIP balcony, Dom Ricci surveyed his kingdom—or what was left of it.
The nightclub was a pressure cooker of high society and crime, draped in velvet and vice.
Crystal chandeliers threw fractured light over the crowd, making everything shimmer with artificial glamour.
At the bar, politicians nursed bourbon beside killers, each man pretending not to know what the other had done to be here.
The scent of expensive perfume mixed with cigarette smoke and the unmistakable tang of desperation.
Dom's whiskey glass was heavy in his hand, but he barely felt it. His mind was elsewhere, dissecting the movements below. He was seeing ghosts in the shadows now.
A few months ago, he would've basked in this moment—the empire humming beneath him, power solid in his grip. But tonight, something was wrong. His paranoia had stopped whispering. It was screaming.
Then his phone buzzed.
A single message. No name. No number.
Unknown Number: You should check on your boys at the docks. Right now.
The glass in his hand tensed. The world below him blurred as his pulse slammed against his ribs. His eyes flicked to the bar. There was Vinnie—laughing, easy, comfortable. With Rizzo.
Dom's gut twisted—not from jealousy, not even from distrust, but from something worse: a feeling that he was already too late.
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A shadow moved in the corner of his vision. Sal approached fast, voice low and urgent.
"We got a problem, Dom."
Dom didn't turn right away. He already knew what Sal was about to say. But hearing it still hit like a knife to the ribs.
"Cops just hit the Fulton stash house."
Dom's pulse spiked. Fulton was locked tight, untouchable. If the cops were there, someone had given them a roadmap. The rat had finally made its move.
He exhaled slowly, forcing his voice steady. "How bad?"
Sal hesitated. "Bad. SWAT. Feds. They came in like they already knew exactly where to look."
The words cut deep. This wasn't a random sweep. This was orchestrated.
Dom's mind raced—stay put, send a crew to clean up? That was the logical move. But logic burned away under the heat of rage. He needed to see it himself.
"Get the car," he said. "Now."
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By the time Dom's blacked-out SUV pulled up to Fulton, the place was a war zone. Red and blue lights flashed against wet pavement, turning the night into a grotesque carnival. SWAT vans lined the street. Unmarked federal cars blocked the exits. Agents moved in tight formations, black silhouettes against floodlights. Rifles up. Movements crisp.
They weren't just raiding. They were dismantling.
Then—
Gunshots. Not from his men. From them.
A figure burst from the side alley—one of Dom's guys, Benny. Running full speed. Didn't make it three steps before a shot rang out. His body jerked, fell, didn't move.
Dom's breath came short, fast. They weren't just here for the stash. They were here to send a message.
"Get us the fuck out of here," Dom growled.
The driver hit the gas. Tires screeched. The SUV fishtailed, barely missing an unmarked federal car. Dom's jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached.
This wasn't just a bust. This was personal. And the rat was still inside his house.
*Enhancement:*
As they sped away, Dom glanced back at the chaos behind him. Smoke rose from burning tires. Broken glass glittered on the ground like scattered diamonds. For the first time, he wondered if this was the beginning—or the end.
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While Dom fled the wreckage, Vinnie Costa sat in the dim glow of The Regency's backroom. Across from him—Rizzo. And two of Dom's most trusted lieutenants. Except they weren't Dom's anymore.
Vinnie swirled his drink lazily. "You see what happened tonight?"
Rizzo nodded, but his jaw was tight. "Cops didn't just stumble onto that spot."
"No, they didn't," Vinnie said smoothly.
Which meant Dom had a choice: admit he was slipping or double down. And they all knew which one he'd pick.
No one argued.
Vinnie leaned in slightly, voice low and controlled. "Dom built this empire by being the sharpest guy in the room."
He took a sip, setting the glass down carefully. "But when a king starts looking over his shoulder more than at the road ahead… that's when empires fall."
Rizzo exhaled. "What are you saying?"
Vinnie smirked, his tone measured. "I'm saying maybe it's time we start thinking about what comes next."
The silence that followed wasn't disagreement—it was acceptance.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then one of the lieutenants cleared his throat. "If we're going to do this, Vinnie, we need a plan."
Vinnie smiled—a slow, deliberate curve of his lips. "Plans take time. Actions don't."
His gaze swept the room, locking onto each man in turn. "Who's with me?"
Three pairs of eyes met his without hesitation.
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Calderone lit a cigarette as he leaned against the hood of his car. Dom stepped out of his SUV, barely holding his rage together.
Didn't say anything at first.
Calderone exhaled smoke. "Hell of a night."
Dom's fingers twitched. "You here to gloat?"
Calderone tilted his head. "No. I'm here to tell you something you already know."
Dom stared at him, silent.
"Somebody inside's cutting your throat. And they're not doing it fast." Calderone flicked the cigarette away. "They're making you bleed."
Dom's jaw clenched. "You're slipping, Ricci. You feel it yet?"
Dom's breath was steady, but his hands weren't. "You think I don't know that?"
Calderone sighed. "Then do something about it. Before there's nothing left to do."
The words hung between them—a final chance, a lifeline. Dom ignored it.
He turned, walking back to his car without another word. Calderone watched him go, shaking his head.
"Guess not."
As Dom climbed into the passenger seat, Calderone called after him. "You keep running blind, Dom, and you'll wake up dead."
Dom didn't respond. The door slammed shut, cutting off Calderone's voice—and any hope of redemption.
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Dom sat in his darkened office, staring at his reflection in the glass window overlooking the city. The whiskey bottle was half-empty.
His phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: That was just the beginning.
Dom exhaled, slow. His grip tightened around the glass, veins pressing against his knuckles. He read the message again. And again.
A warning. A taunt. Or maybe just the truth.
Dom took a long, slow sip of whiskey. Stared out at the wreckage of his operation.
"Kings don't fall in one night," he muttered.
He already knew how this worked.
"They bleed out slow."
The city stretched before him, bright and hollow, full of promises it never intended to keep. Somewhere out there, the pieces of his empire were falling apart. One by one.
And somewhere else, Vinnie was stacking those pieces for himself.
Dom drained the last of his whiskey, slamming the glass onto the desk. The sound echoed in the empty room.
"They'll pay," he whispered. "Every last one of them."
But even as he said it, doubt crept in. Was this defiance—or denial?