Chapter 8 - The New Rule
Victor Valenti looked around the ring of steel surrounding his men.
His jaw worked back and forth, his silver hair blowing in the cold sea wind. He looked down at his crying son tied to the chair, then back at Dominic’s stone-cold face.
"Fifty grand," Victor growled through his teeth. "You'll have it by morning."
"You'll have it delivered to Mercer Street by six AM," Dominic corrected, stepping back toward his car. "And if I see Cruz on the East Side after sunrise, I won't call a sit-down. I'll call a mason to build a slab."
Dominic turned his back on ten loaded guns and walked calmly back toward his SUV.
As he reached his door, he stopped. He didn't look up at the crane, but he raised his voice just enough for the sea draft to carry it straight to where I was crouching.
"Get down from there, Little Leo," Dominic called out smoothly. "The wool jacket you're wearing is dragging in the rust."
I flinched, my mouth popping open. I crept out from behind the crane's iron frame and jogged over to his car, my hand clutching the oversized sleeves of Marcus's coat around my knuckles.
Dominic looked down at me, shaking his head slowly.
"You don't follow orders very well, kid," he said, though there was no anger in his eyes.
"I had to make sure the contract was finished," I said, looking up at him through my messy hair. "That's how business works."
Dominic let out a short, rough sound that was almost a laugh. He reached down into Cruz’s lap, picked up the five-dollar bill, wiped the sea spray off it, and tucked it carefully into his vest pocket.
"Get in," Dominic said, opening the rear door for me. "Your mom’s waiting at the house. Helen made apple pie."
Two days later, the sun finally came out over Mercer Street.
The red sauce on our linoleum floor was scrubbed clean. The broken latch on our front door was replaced with a heavy steel deadbolt installed by two quiet men in grey work shirts who refused to take any money for the job.
Every morning at eight o'clock, a white delivery truck pulled up to Mrs. Chen's corner store, dropping off fresh crates of fruit, milk, and bread for our building, marked with a small blue stamp on the wooden crates: Paid in Full.
I sat on the front stoop of our building, wearing new black sneakers that didn't need tape, watching the traffic rumble down 5th Street.
A long black SUV pulled up to the curb.
The dark window rolled down two inches.
Dominic Vance sat inside, holding a morning paper in one hand and a cup of black coffee in the other. He looked out at me, his dark eyes squinting against the bright morning light.
"How's your mom, Leo?" he asked low.
"She's good," I said, standing up on the top step. "She got her job back at the bakery. She said to tell you thank you for the extra deadbolt."
Dominic nodded once, taking a slow sip of his coffee.
"She know you're sitting out here acting like a lookout?"
"I am a lookout," I said, holding my chin high. "I'm checking the block."
Dominic looked at me for a long, quiet moment. Then he reached into his sun visor, pulled out a small piece of dark blue cardstock with a phone number embossed in silver lettering, and tossed it onto the stoop near my feet.
"If anyone with a tattoo comes down this street again," Dominic said, rolling up his window, "you call that number. You don't need five dollars next time."
"Why not?" I shouted over the rumble of his engine.
The window stopped an inch from the top.
May you like
"Because," Dominic’s voice came through the gap, smooth and heavy as iron, "the firm is retaining you on a permanent basis."
The SUV pulled away from the curb, sweeping down 5th Street under the bright blue sky, leaving me standing on the stoop with the silver-lettered card in my hand, holding down the safest block in the entire city.
