Vincent Russo.
28
MATTEO
Istep outside with the phone so the walls do not have to hold this. The cold finds the seams of my coat. Snow has started to fall in slow, fat pieces, each flake confident of where it will settle. The bakery windows glow behind me, flickering in blues and golds, a trace of red from the tree shimmering against the glass. I can see Lila moving, her outline soft and sure. At the table, a smaller shape bends forward. It is the boy with the paper crown.
I accept the call. “Sì.”
Vincent’s voice is level, the same tone he uses at a table where other men confuse volume with power. “Merry Christmas, Matteo. I see the Benedetti attempt failed. Your report was thin.”
“It was thin by design,” I say. “You have what you need. They tested the town, and their men lost.”
He lets that sit. “You are outside our lines. Wrenleigh is not under my umbrella. If the Benedettis try again, my name will not be on a wall there. Remove the woman and the boy to a secure location.”
“No.”
A pause, short but heavy. “Excuse me?”
“I will not move them,” I repeat. “I am done with roads and corridors and the compromises that come with taking orders. I am tired of moving people to suit other men’s timetables, of turning at a voice on a wire.”
“Matteo.” He uses my name like a hand on a shoulder. “You protect assets by moving them to the ground I own. I can put them in a house in Westchester by nightfall. Unmarked. Staff I trust. You finish what you started and go home.”
“This is home,” I say. The words surprise me by how easily they come. “I am finished moving them like cargo.”
“You are mistaken. You are crossing boundaries here.” Vincent’s voice goes quiet—the sound he makes before an attack. “I want them safe.”
I do not forget easily.Nessuna storia,Vincent had said once, his voice stone against gravel.Silenzio è meglio.
“I decide the boundaries.” My voice hardens, meeting his strike before it lands. “You want them safe? Show me proof, face-to-face. I do not hand my people over for convenience.”
Vincent does not raise his voice. He never has to. “You have obligations. You do not decide where the lines run. I do.”
“Not anymore.” I look at the square. Smoke still clings to the church eaves, a faint reminder of what almost took them. “I am done with assignments that keep me from them.”
“You are resigning on Christmas.”
“I am resigning because of Christmas,” I answer. “You told me once to know what I would die to protect and to move toward it without hesitation. I have found it. It does not belong in another man’s ledger.”
Inside, a chair scrapes. Someone laughs. Lila’s silhouette passes the window and stops as if she is listening. Snow gathers on my sleeves. The sharp cold gives me a clear head.
Vincent breathes out through his nose, then goes quiet. When he speaks again, he is back to being the debt collector. “You walk away from the family, and you walk away from name, shelter, and message,” he says, smooth as a capsule. “You lose safe ports. Men who owe you stop remembering. Your bands stop meaning anything.” He means the ink on my arm. “The Benedettis will not give you a second chance. Neither will I.”
“I understand.”
“You will be hunted.”
“They have been hunting,” I remind him. “They found this town and tested its edges. I am done waiting. I will set the board now.”
“You have always set the map for me,” he says, almost softly. “For years.”
“I learned from you. I am using what I learned.”
“You are asking me to bless a betrayal.” His voice turns almost petulant.
“I am telling you I will not run your lines anymore.” I check the street, then the alley. The habit is sharper than the cold. “The men I brought here walk off the board untouched. Petro and Nico return to their lives. My next move ends the game.”
I have built a smaller board, one that does not answer to Vincent. The pieces already know where they stand. He knows that. He goes quiet again. Snow whispers against the brim of my cap. Far away, a train horn drags across the fields. The sound reminds me of nights I slept two hours at a time and called it plenty.
