Ten people dead. Three women. A fourteen-year-old boy.
And Congressman Patterson helped make it happen.
I splash cold water on my wrists. My reflection stares back at me—pale, shaken, trying desperately to look composed.
I thought I understood what Dante was. A mobster. Dangerous. Someone who used money and intimidation to get what he wanted.
But watching him work tonight showed me something else entirely.
He's not just dangerous. He's brilliant. Strategic. A man who collects information like weapons and deploys them with surgical precision.
And I'm trapped in a contract with him.
I dry my hands, square my shoulders, and head for the door. I need to get back to the table.
But when I step into the hallway leading back to the dining room, I hear voices.
Low. Tense.
I freeze, pressed against the wall near the corner.
"—don't have three days!" Patterson's voice is pitched high with panic. "You don't understand what you're asking?—"
"I understand perfectly." Dante's voice is soft. Deadly. "You betrayed the Romano family. You got innocent people killed. And now you're going to make it right."
"The Corsettis will know I talked. They'll come after me?—"
"Then you should've thought about that before you took their money." A pause. "Or maybe you should've thought about it before you helped them murder a kid."
"I didn't know?—"
"You didn't ask." The temperature in Dante's voice drops even further. "You saw dollar signs and decided your conscience was negotiable. That's on you."
"Vitale, please?—"
"Friday, Mike. Every piece of information you gave them. Every contact. Every meeting. Every dollar." Footsteps—Dante must be moving closer. "And if you even think about running, about warning them, about doing anything other than exactly what I've told you to do, I'll make sure Matteo Romano knows you're the reason people are dead."
Silence.
Then Patterson, his voice barely above a whisper: "He'll kill me."
"Probably." Dante sounds almost sympathetic. Almost. "But if you cooperate, if you give me everything I need, I might be able to avoid mentioning details to him."
"You're asking me to choose which family will kill me."
"I'm giving you more choice than you gave that fourteen-year-old boy."
The cruelty of it—the cold, implacable logic—makes my breath catch.
"I have a family?—"
"So did the people you helped kill." Dante's voice hardens. "Your wife, your kids—they'll be fine. We don't touch families. But you? You didn’t care, did you?"
"Jesus Christ?—"
"Save it. I'll expect your call by Friday morning. Nine o’clock. If I don't hear from you by nine-fifteen, I make my own call. Understood?"
"Yes." The word comes out broken.
