? Dominick's Shadow ?
Night had arrived, but not all the light had gone. A muted blue still clung to the sky’s edge, dimming by the minute. The shadows thickened between the buildings, soaking into cracks and corners like slow ink.
Dante crouched on the rooftop of the northern warehouse, watching. His side was still clear—until he caught movement from across the industrial zone.
The man near the southern building's rooftop—Alex’s side—opened a suitcase.
Metal caught the last of the dusk.
Dante’s eyes narrowed. A rifle.
The man got into position, facing inward, carefully settling behind cover.
Dante muttered, “Damn it... Looks like the burden’s on you this time, buddy. Good luck. Just don't mix the signals.”
Then the sound of wheels—wooden, heavy—grinding across the concrete below.
Dante leaned carefully over the ledge.
Loaded wagons were entering from the north gate, closer to his position. They halted. Ten men spilled out, quick and disciplined, making their way into the zone like they'd rehearsed it.
“The Veraccis,” Dante whispered. “They're planning something after all with that rifle over there. Must be scared.”
He quickly slid into the chimney shaft behind him—tight, cold, narrow. He fit just enough, but it gave him a clean line of sight and cover. Just in time.
"I could have played a stray, but I would be risking getting kicked out from here. I have to stay here and help Alex if he ever needs me. I need to also signal that this side is clear."
Two of the Veracci men entered his building, scanning each room.
They even checked the rooftop.
But they moved fast, didn’t linger. No reason to suspect anything. The place seemed abandoned.
Once they regrouped, they reported to their leader outside—a sharp-featured man in his late thirties with slick blonde hair and a navy coat. Faustino Veracci, son of Juan Veracci, was leading the negotiation tonight.
“All clear. No one in this building,” one scout said.
Faustino nodded. “Good. We got John stationed on the other one already.”
He raised his hand to signal across the compound—John, the rifleman, gave a subtle nod from Alex’s rooftop.
“This is just a precaution,” Faustino said to his men. “We’re not ambushing anyone. But I don’t trust Dominick.”
The men stood in a loose semicircle. Some looked nervous. Faustino noticed, and steadied them.
“Listen. We’re here to keep the peace. No one shoots unless they shoot first. I don’t know what Dominick or the trio dons are thinking—whether they’re planning to erase our family from the map or not. But if they are… this deal is the perfect cover to start a war. But we're not spineless cowards. If they want one no matter what, we will fight back.”
"They may want the city just for themselves. They may think that all competition was erased, so why not throw in the Veraccis as well in the dumpster."
“If it goes wrong, we’ve got the high ground. John’s on the rooftop. He’s good. But let’s hope we don’t need him.”
The men nodded. Faustino was composed, clear-eyed. Not arrogant—just ready. A natural leader.
From the opposite end, Alex crouched on the second floor, peeking.
It was hard to hear from this distance. He couldn’t make out the conversation—just vague shapes, gestures, movements like shadows in a silent play.
Few minutes passed.
Then wheels again.
Another wagon.
No—two.
Three.
Rolling in through the south entrance, near him.
These men were different. Heavier. Quieter. More deliberate. There were eight of them, and every one looked like they could kill with a glare.
Big, broad-shouldered, dressed in black. Some wore gloves. One carried a crowbar. Another had a blade tucked into his boot.
The weight in the air changed.
The Veraccis stood, led by Faustino, stiffened, but ready.
Alex’s breath caught. “Must be Dominick’s men.”
Then someone stepped down from the wagon.
He wasn’t as broad as the others, but taller. Pale. Neat black suit. Collar straight, tie tight. His face was unreadable—calm, even pleasant. Not threatening like the usual Dominick's face, but unsettling.
His hair slicked back without a strand out of place. The others moved around him, but none touched him. He was the only one who didn’t carry a visible weapon.
Alex narrowed his eyes. Is that Vince?
He studied the man’s figure through the dusty glass..
"Giovanni from the Marcettis and Dominick—they have more presence," Alex thought.
"But this one... he’s different. Looks like a normal man. I see what Dante meant."
He kept watching. Still and silent.
Waiting for whatever would come next.
Dante, who just got out of the chimney, grinned in quiet amusement. “There he is.”
Vince halted, and all around him the men stilled, as if their will was tethered to his breath. His eyes swept the yard with calculated sharpness—the right hand of Dominick in full command.
“You’re early, Faustino,” Vince’s voice broke the stillness, calm and precise.
Faustino stepped forward, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. His voice was low but carried an edge of challenge.
“Dominick isn’t here?” he asked.
Vince’s smile never wavered. “Nope. Just me. I hope you’re not disappointed.”
The two groups stood at a cautious distance, a stretch of empty ground yawning between them—the kind of space deals demanded when trust was scarce and guns were close.
They spoke loud enough to bridge it, every word carrying clear to where Alex, John, and Dante listened from the shadows.
Faustino's gaze flickered subtly as he considered the answer from Vince, thoughts running quietly beneath his words.
"This isn’t even one of the Dons, nor of one of their advisors or lawyers he mused inwardly. I don’t recognize him among the top enforcers either…"
"That means only one thing"… he thought grimly.
"This is the ghost himself — the shadow that only moves beside Dominick."
"They say when he’s alone, he dresses so plainly, and his face fades into the crowd, barely noticeable."
The man cleared his throat and straightened, fixing Vince with a look sharpened by rumors and fear alike.
“You’re Vince, right?”
Vince inclined his head in acknowledgement.
His voice cut through the murmurs.
“Let's carry this deal peacefully.”
“With the Marcettis crushed, I trust this means good terms between us, Don Emilio, Don Silvano, Don Carlo—and Dominick.”
Vince’s smile deepened, sharp and knowing.
“Smart man. We don’t want trouble either.”
From the second-floor window, Alex’s breath was steady, eyes narrowing as he watched. "He’s still talking… no sign he’s looking for a signal yet."
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Vince took a step forward just as the Veracci men pried open a crate, revealing the glittering gold inside.
Alex’s gaze sharpened. "There he is... this is the best chance to catch a signal."
“A little time till he sees me—” Alex whispered under his breath.
Suddenly, without head movement, Vince’s piercing eyes locked onto Alex’s position with frightening speed. A chill ran down the boy’s spine.
“That fast?!” Alex murmured, heart pounding.
Alex steadied himself, voice low but determined.
“Alright, focus… here goes.”
He stepped fully into the window’s frame, clear and visible to Vince’s sharp eyes. No one else but him is paying attention. Vince didn’t blink, watching every movement.
Alex made the first signal — palms on the sides of his neck. Vince’s eyes narrowed as he silently analyzed. "Ambush."
Without breaking gaze, Alex raised his head and casually scratched his ear with one hand and raised the index finger of the other. Vince’s expression tightened, decoding the message. "Only one man. Above, on the rooftop."
Alex froze, then slipped back into shadow, peeking briefly to catch Vince’s reaction.
And then—
Vince’s lips curved into the gentlest smile Alex had seen since arriving in the city on a man’s face.
Not cruel or cold, but almost… kind.
So faint it made Alex flush.
“I did good,” Alex whispered to himself. “I think he got it.”
Then Vince’s eyes shifted toward the northern building.
High on the rooftop, Dante was barely visible—but just visible enough. He crept near the ledge, keeping low, scanning the figures below.
For a split second, Vince looked straight at him.
Dante didn’t panic. Calmly, he adjusted his collar—a subtle, practiced motion, smooth and quick.
That was the signal: Clear.
He grinned faintly to himself, then ducked out of sight, confident Vince had seen it.
No wave. No nod. Just one tiny movement passed between them, quiet as a breath—but it was enough.
Vince turned his attention back to the Veracci men, who remained oblivious to the silent exchanges.
“Uh… Faustino,” Vince’s tone was casual, “Is there anyone else here by any chance?”
Faustino’s brow furrowed.
“No. Just us.”
Vince’s eyes flicked inward, connecting the dots.
“Ah. Alright then,” Vince said softly.
“I’m sorry. The deal is off.”
Shock rippled through the Veracci contingent. Even Vince's men looked confused, but remained calm, knowing how competent he is.
Faustino’s voice hardened.
“Quit joking, Vince! What even happened?”
John, with the rifle, looked baffled, thinking in fear.
“No way he spotted me! I was perfectly hidden! I didn’t even glance...”
"Is it the kid? Did he tip him off? He is the only one who saw me come in."
"No... he didn't even see the rifle. And one moment ago, Vince looked clueless as well..."
Vince’s smile deepened, ironically gentle — like a father reprimanding a careless child.
“You know what happened.”
“Calm down, Maybe he’s bluffing.” Faustino thought to himself after calming down.
He raised his hand, signaling the crates to be reloaded back.
“Looks like we wasted our time, men. Dominick’s right hand’s playing childish games. Let's go. No deal.”
As the Veracci henchmen were reloading the crates, Vince didn’t flinch. Faustino assumed he was staying, and thought he wanted to carry the deal.
“Second thoughts, Vince?” Faustino smirked.
Vince scratched the back of his head, voice smooth as silk.
“Ah, my mistake. Seems there was a misunderstanding.”
Faustino gestured to his men to stop reloading,
“He was bluffing after all… he wants the deal done. Childish attempt to intimidate us, thinking he caught on our man on the rooftop.”
But Vince’s voice dropped low and deadly:
“Deal’s off. Doesn’t mean you walk away.”
The air hung heavy with a strange stillness, as if the entire abandoned industrial zone was holding its breath.
The Veracci faction shifted uneasily. Confusion flickered behind their eyes, their usual confidence drained by Vince’s unexpected control of the situation.
Dante crouched in the shadows of the next building, his face pressed against his palm.
"Oh no…"
Alex’s mind raced, heart pounding.
"What? Is he going to kill them because they learned about the ambush?"
Faustino’s voice broke the silence, measured but edged with frustration.
“What do you mean, we don’t walk away?”
Vince said nothing.
Faustino mirrored the silence that loomed between them, his lips drawn into a tight line. He stood composed, outwardly calm, but the tension had thickened to a point one could slice it with a dull blade. Around him, several of the Veracci men, sensing danger in the air, began to drift toward their weapons with the cautious, deliberate slowness of men touching fire.
Vince's gaze caught the movement. It flicked to them like a blade unsheathed.
“Let me make this clear,” he said, his tone cool, conversational. “We can’t do deals unless you trust us. But you’re plotting something.”
Faustino’s expression tightened.
“Plotting what? Come on now! What's even your proof?”
Vince smiled with the ease of a man who knew exactly where the path led and had already counted every stone.
“You’re not a judge, Faustino. And you’re not my superior. You don’t get to ask for proof. But I’ll give you a chance to admit it yourself.”
Faustino’s brow arched, the faintest flicker of disdain tightening the corner of his mouth.
“Be realistic, Vince. None of us trust each other completely. And neither do you.”
Vince’s head tilted slightly, as if weighing the sentence—not for truth, but for usefulness. His voice came calm and clean, like a scalpel.
“You know how far the Veraccis lag behind us in terms of—well, just about everything.”
Faustino’s jaw tensed.
“You look down on us way too much.”
There was a silence—not long, just enough to be noticed. Then Vince spoke, voice lighter now, almost teasing.
“Which one of us is paying double the market price for guns again?”
Faustino’s fists clenched at his sides.
Above, unseen from the ground, Alex peered through the cracked window, breath tight in his chest. His thoughts galloped.
"Come on, please. No bloodshed. At least not tonight. Just admit it. Maybe… maybe he’ll let you go."
Below, Faustino turned to his men. They were whispering, confused.
“How the hell did he know…?"
"We got a rat inside?”
But even in the hushed panic, his voice cut through.
“Stay focused. There’s no snitch. Calm down.”
Then louder, facing Vince once again.
“We want the deal done. Easy. Simple. We’ve got the gold right here. You can check it. If the quality satisfies you, we move forward.”
Vince exhaled, slowly, almost as if disheartened. The weariness in it was palpable, but it held no warmth. No relief. Only a final edge of thinning patience.
“One last time,” he said quietly. “Where are your men hiding?”
Faustino held his ground. Eyes locked. But sweat traced the curve of his temple. He was confused, off-balance. There was no way Vince could know. And yet—
Vince made no answer. Not in words.
He simply breathed, soft and steady through his nose, and then let the air go in something that resembled boredom. Not anger. Not smugness. A tiredness that had worn itself into the bone.
And then he looked.
Just a flick of his gaze, casual, up toward the rooftop.
Faustino felt it like a strike to the stomach.
"He knows."
The thought landed like lead in Faustino’s gut, and the knowledge passed through the men like a chill wind.
Alex saw it too. Vince, moving now, slowly but with that terrifying certainty, walking in his direction. Each step purposeful. Unhurried.
And then, mid-step, Vince spoke. Loud. Clear.
“If you hear a single gunshot—” he said, “Kill them all.”
Faustino felt the cold crawl down his spine. His thoughts spun.
"If it breaks out now—we lose our edge. Vince is walking toward John. We lost the element of surprise and if Vince takes out John, we lose the high ground too... Still... I can’t give him up. I can’t sell out my man."
On the rooftop, John crouched low, finger near the trigger, breath caught in his throat. His rifle was trained on the doorway.
“Damn it all,” he muttered. “Only fire if they fire first. That’s what he told me. But if he’s coming for me…”
He gritted his teeth, gaze narrowing.
“Should I just give myself up ? No... If it gets chaotic, I will be needed here.”
Below, the Veracci men stirred, panic bubbling at the edges of their discipline.
Vince’s men had already drawn their weapons. Calm. Practiced. Resigned.
One of them murmured,
“Does Vince have a sixth sense or something?”
“Not the first time he’s pulled this trick.”
“If it’s true,” another muttered, “we take out the cowards. No deals with liars.”
Faustino saw the storm assembling—saw it and knew how close they all stood to the edge. His own men, shifting, uncertain. His side of the bargain trembling on a hairline crack.
And Vince—Vince didn’t seem to care at all.
Not for the gold.
Not for the danger.
Not even for his own men.
He walked as if none of it mattered.
As if death itself bored him.
“Wait!” Faustino barked. “Vince!”
Vince stopped.
He didn’t turn, not fully. Just tilted his head back slightly, like a man reacting to the sound of a dog’s bark behind him. No threat in it. No malice. Only indulgence.
Faustino hesitated—then straightened, shoulders set. His voice came steadier now, low but clear.
“You’re right,” he said. “One of my men got nervous and thought about positioning himself in the rooftop there. It wasn’t a plan. That’s on me. But we didn’t come here to fight. We came to make peace. Let me handle my side. I’ll go up. I’ll bring him down myself.”
He lifted his voice—not with anger, but with certainty, with authority.
“Let’s not burn this deal over a panicked idiot.”
Silence fell. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Then, slowly, like water released from a dam, the Veracci men relaxed. Shoulders slumped. Eyes dropped. One let out a long breath and whispered,
“Oh, thank God. That was clean…”
“If he’d admitted John was acting on orders,” another said, “who knows what Vince would’ve done. Even if the deal went through, the trust would’ve been poisoned. Even if not today, it will happen later.”
"But this way... it's not an ambush or a plan... it's just a mistake and no one will get hurt."
“God bless you, Faustino.”
Up on the rooftop, John had heard every word. He lowered the rifle, let his breath out in one long gust. “Idiot, huh?” he muttered. “I’ll stomp you for that later.” And then, softer, “Thank you, Faustino.”
Meanwhile, Alex had barely unclenched his fingers from the windowsill. His heart was pounding so loudly it muffled the faint voices below. He leaned just a little closer to the cracked pane, daring to believe it might be over.
“Is it… over?” he whispered, barely audible even to himself.
His voice trembled more from hope than fear. His shoulders had dropped an inch, his body no longer locked in place like a spring. For a second—just a second—he thought the storm had passed.
The only one who didn’t feel the relief… was Dante, who knew Dominick's right hand man better than anyone.
The air held still.
Faustino’s eyes never left Vince. Waiting. Measuring. Hoping.
But Vince said nothing.
He resumed his walk towards the building without a word or even a flicker of expression.
Faustino and his men gasped.
As he entered the warehouse, the world trembled.
Thank you for reading :)
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