Chapter 6: The Last Favor
The meeting was held in a private dining room above a restaurant on the north side of the city.
No windows.
One door.
A table set for four.
Vincent arrived first.
He sat with his back to the wall, the way he always sat, and waited.
The two men who came in at eight o'clock were not Moretti men.
They were older.
Better dressed.
The kind of men whose names appeared on charitable foundations and city planning committees and nowhere else.
The kind of men the Morettis answered to.
Salvatore Greco sat across from Vincent.
His associate, a thin man named Fenn who had never been photographed, sat to his left.
"Vincent." Greco poured two glasses of wine without asking.
"It's been a long time."
"Three years."
"You look tired."
"I am tired."
Greco smiled.
"And yet here you are, calling in your last favor.
For what, exactly?"
Vincent set a folder on the table.
Inside were the Moretti family's operations — eight months of documentation.
Supply routes.
Financial transfers.
Names of officials on their payroll.
The full picture.
Greco opened it.
He read in silence for two minutes.
Fenn looked at nothing.
"This is thorough," Greco said.
"I know."
"You've been building this for a while."
"Yes."
"You were saving it."
"Yes."
Greco closed the folder.
"And now you're spending it." He looked at Vincent carefully.
"For a maid."
The word sat in the air between them.
Vincent looked back at him without blinking.
"For a woman who has worked honestly in my house for four years," he said.
"And for her daughter.
Who is eight years old and was eating cold pasta off my pantry floor because her mother couldn't afford both food and medicine."
Fenn's expression didn't change.
But his eyes moved to Vincent's face.
Greco was quiet for a moment.
"The Morettis used her as a pressure point," Vincent continued.
"They put a note under her door.
They photographed her child.
They did it because they thought it would make me bend." He picked up his wine.
"I want them to understand that it had the opposite effect."
"And what exactly do you want from us?"
"Pull their license on the southern docks.
Freeze the Moretti accounts that run through the Calloway holding company — you know the ones.
And make it clear to Dante Moretti personally that Vincent Torino's household staff are not to be looked at, spoken to, or thought about."
Greco studied him.
"That's a significant ask."
"It's a significant folder."
Another silence.
Fenn leaned forward slightly.
"There's a woman," Fenn said.
His voice was very quiet.
"On the Moretti side.
Handles their communications.
She's been feeding information to a federal task force for fourteen months." He looked at Vincent.
"If we move on the Morettis now, she gets pulled out safely.
That's been a problem we haven't been able to solve cleanly."
"Then we solve it now," Vincent said.
Greco looked at Fenn.
Something passed between them.
"All right," Greco said.
He picked up the folder.
"Consider it done."
"I want it done before Sunday."
"Saturday," Greco said.
"We'll be faster than you expect."
Vincent nodded.
He stood to leave.
"Vincent." Greco's voice stopped him at the door.
"The maid.
Does she know what you did tonight?"
"No."
"Will you tell her?"
Vincent thought about the fourth page in the folder.
The handwritten note.
*This is a debt I owe.*
"No," he said.
Greco nodded slowly.
"Good," he said.
"Some things are better kept between the person who does them and the reason they did them."
Vincent left.
Outside, the city was loud and indifferent.
He walked to his car.
His driver held the door.
He sat in the back and looked out the window as the streets moved past.
He thought about Isabella sitting down at his kitchen table like she had every right to be there.
He thought about Carmen's hands pressing flat against the table, refusing to shake.
He thought about a child eating cold pasta in a pantry, protecting her mother's pride with the only words she had.
*Don't fire my mommy.
Please.*
He had spent thirty years building a world where he owed nothing to anyone.
He had spent one night dismantling it.
He didn't regret it.
But when his phone buzzed on the seat beside him, and he saw Marco's name on the screen, something tightened in his chest.
He answered.
"Boss." Marco's voice was careful.
May you like
"Carmen's building on Calle Menor.
There's a problem."
