The champagne flowed like a river at The Regency that night, the air thick with the scent of money, power, and barely disguised desperation.
The club pulsed with music, the clink of glasses, the low murmur of whispered deals being brokered in shadowed corners.
It was a celebration. A coronation.
Vinnie Costa stood at the head of the long mahogany table, a bottle of Dom Pérignon in hand, watching the room with an expression that almost looked like triumph.
Almost.
Tonight was his official rise as the new king. He had won.
So why did it feel like a loss?
Vinnie took a slow sip, letting the champagne linger on his tongue, but it tasted wrong. Hollow. His gut hadn't settled since Fulton. If anything, the unease had only grown.
His gaze swept across the room, lingering on familiar faces—loyal soldiers, sycophants, opportunists, men who had once sworn allegiance to Dom Ricci but now called him boss. But when Vinnie looked at them, he didn't see loyalty. He saw threats.
Every smile felt forced. Every toast seemed hollow. Even the laughter carried an edge, like they were all waiting for the other shoe to drop. Vinnie knew better than anyone—the throne he sat on wasn't built on trust; it was built on fear. And fear could turn on you faster than any blade.
Then his eyes landed on Sera Rossi.
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She sat at the far end of the table, swirling a glass of whiskey in her hand. Her dark eyes unreadable, her expression too composed. When their gazes met, she raised her glass in a silent toast, her lips curling into a faint, knowing smile.
Respect? Or something colder?
Vinnie's fingers tightened around his glass. Mira's voice whispered in his mind: *"She was close to Dom. She's watching. Waiting."*
And then there was Tony 'The Hammer' Mancini.
He leaned against the bar, his hulking frame casting a shadow over the room. He laughed too loudly at some crude joke, but Vinnie wasn't fooled. He noticed the way Tony's eyes flicked around the room, scanning the exits. Watching. Waiting.
For a moment, Vinnie imagined what Tony would say if asked directly about his loyalty. Would he roar defiance,
slamming his fist on the table and declaring fealty? Or would he hesitate—a split-second pause that spoke volumes? Either way, Vinnie couldn't afford hesitation. Not anymore.
Vinnie forced a smirk, lifting his glass toward them before draining it in one swallow. His hand was steady, but his mind raced. Something had to be done. He needed to send a message—a clear, final, unquestionable message.
And when his gaze landed on Rocco, he knew exactly who it would be for.
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Rizzo, his ever-loyal lieutenant, clapped him on the back, nearly making him spill his drink.
"You did it, Vin! You're the man now! Dom's history!"
Vinnie let out a sharp laugh, slinging an arm around Rizzo's shoulder.
"Damn right, I did. And let's make one thing clear—I'm the one running this show now."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. But murmurs weren't enough.
He needed to make them believe.
He needed to make them fear.
And Rizzo—his longtime bodyguard—was the perfect example.
Rizzo.
The man who had been at his side for years, through every back-alley deal, every bloodstained night. A loyal soldier.
But lately, something had felt off.
A hesitation.
A stiffness.
A lack of eye contact.
Doubt.
Vinnie replayed recent interactions with Rocco in his mind. The way Rizzo hesitated during meetings.
The way he avoided direct answers when questioned. It wasn't definitive proof of betrayal—but in Vinnie's world, suspicion was enough.
Vinnie smiled, but the decision was already made.
"Rizzo."
The room fell silent.
Rizzo mid-drink, froze. Slowly, he set his glass down and stepped forward.
"Yeah, boss?"
Vinnie clapped a firm hand on his shoulder, his grip just a little too tight. He leaned in, voice low, almost friendly.
"I've noticed something, Ric. You've been distracted lately."
Rizzo's brows furrowed. "Boss, I—"
"You're hesitant," Vinnie continued, ignoring the interruption. "And hesitation? That's dangerous in our world. Deadly, even."
A bead of sweat formed at Rizzo's temple.
"Boss, I don't know what you—"
"Relax," Vinnie said, flashing a sharp grin.
"It's not personal."
His eyes flicked to the two men standing near the entrance.
"Take him out."
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"Wait—what?! Vinnie, no! I've always been loyal!"
The two guards were on him in an instant. Gripping his arms as he struggled, his pleas swallowed by the heavy bass of the music.
His glass shattered against the marble floor as they dragged him toward the exit.
No one moved to stop them.
No one even looked away.
The door slammed shut.
A muffled gunshot followed.
For a moment, silence hung in the air. Then someone cleared their throat, breaking the spell.
Conversations resumed, louder now, filled with nervous laughter and forced enthusiasm.
But beneath the surface, the atmosphere shifted. The weight of what just happened pressed down on everyone in the room.
Vinnie barely blinked.
He turned back to the table, smoothing out his suit. His men stared at him, a mixture of fear and awe flickering in their eyes.
Good.
Fear kept people in line.
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Vinnie reached for the bottle of Macallan 25, pouring himself another drink with steady hands. Then he raised his glass, voice booming with newfound confidence.
"To loyalty. And to those who prove it."
The room erupted into cheers. Clinking glasses, forced laughter, empty toasts.
But beneath it all, Vinnie could still hear the echo of the gunshot.
As he drained his glass, Vinnie allowed himself a rare moment of reflection. Was this what power really tasted like? This bitter mix of victory and doubt?
He thought about Dom—the man he'd betrayed, the man whose shoes he now tried to fill. Had Dom ever felt this way?
Did he ever question whether those around him truly supported him or merely waited for him to falter?
Probably not.
Because Dom wasn't afraid to rule with both fists clenched tight.
Vinnie exhaled, lighting a cigarette. Smoke curled upward, mingling with the dim light of the chandeliers. For the first time since taking the throne, he felt something else. Like a king.
A king with a crown too heavy on his head.
A king with a knife already waiting for his back.
Vinnie glanced around the room again, his gaze landing on Sera and Tony. Both avoided meeting his eyes, focusing instead on their drinks or the distant hum of the music. They weren't celebrating—they were surviving. Just like everyone else.
And somewhere out there, Dom Ricci might still be breathing.
If so, Vinnie wouldn't hesitate next time.
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In the corner of the room, unnoticed by most, Mira observed everything. Her lips curved into a faint smile as she watched Vinnie bask in his newfound authority.
She had planted the seeds of doubt earlier, whispering warnings about Sera and Tony. Now, seeing how easily Vinnie acted on those doubts, she realized just how fragile his control really was.
Mira finished her drink, sliding off her stool quietly. As she slipped out of the club, she muttered under her breath:
"They'll tear each other apart before they even realize it."
Her words carried weight—not just for Vinnie, but for the entire empire. By eliminating perceived threats, Vinnie created a vacuum of trust. Without loyalty holding things together, cracks would form—and where there are cracks, knives find their way in.
Meanwhile, outside the club, the rain began to fall, washing away the remnants of the night's festivities.
The city stretched before Vinnie, vast and merciless. And though he ruled it now, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was slipping through his fingers.