Chapter 3 - Blood on the Velvet
The rain fell in unrelenting torrents over Astoria, turning the neon signs of the industrial avenue into blurry smears of red and green. The Velvet Lounge, a windowless private club hidden behind an unassuming concrete facade, belonged exclusively to Vincent Costa. It was where he ran his bookmaking operations, counted his extortion money, and hosted late-night card games for corrupt city officials.
An armored black Suburban pulled into the narrow alleyway behind the venue, its tires churning through stagnant puddles.
Inside the back seat, Lorenzo adjusted his cufflinks. He took a heavy, custom-engraved Sig Sauer 9mm pistol from the lockbox beneath his armrest, checked the magazine with a practiced pull of the slide, and slotted it into his shoulder holster.
Matteo opened the rear door, holding an umbrella over Lorenzo as he stepped out onto the wet asphalt. Four heavily armed men from Lorenzo's personal security team were already waiting in the alley, their dark coats drawn tight over automatic rifles.
"The side entrance is clear, Boss," Paulie whispered, stepping out of the shadows. "We cut the security camera feeds two minutes ago."
Lorenzo didn't answer with words. He simply gestured toward the metal fire door with a slight tilt of his head.
Paulie produced a heavy iron pry-bar, jammed it between the doorframe and the latch, and put his full weight behind it. With a sharp, metallic groan, the heavy lock snapped.
Lorenzo stepped inside first, moving through the narrow utility corridor that smelled strongly of stale beer, disinfectant, and cigar smoke. He pushed open the double doors leading into the main lounge.
The club was quiet. The public bar had closed hours ago, leaving only the VIP section at the back illuminated by low overhead lamps. Sitting around a large felt-covered poker table were three men: two low-level enforcers holding glasses of amber liquor, and Vincent Costa himself, dressed in a silk shirt with his sleeves rolled up, laughing as he stacked a pile of hundred-dollar bills.
The laughter died instantly as the heavy footsteps of Lorenzo's men echoed across the parquet floor.
Vincent turned around, his smug grin faltering as he saw Lorenzo emerging from the shadows of the doorway. He quickly pushed his chair back, standing up with an uneasy chuckle.
"Lorenzo! Boss!" Vincent spread his hands wide in an exaggerated gesture of welcome, though his eyes darted nervously toward the empty entry hall. "What are you doing out in Astoria this late? If you wanted a cut of the Queens weekly haul, I was going to bring it to the estate tomorrow afternoon."
Lorenzo walked forward slowly, stopping at the edge of the poker table. He didn't look at the money, nor did he acknowledge the two enforcers who were staring at him in paralyzed silence.
"Clear the room," Lorenzo commanded softly.
Matteo and Paulie immediately moved forward, grabbing the two enforcers by their collars and dragging them backward out of the VIP section. The men didn't fight back; they knew better than to interfere when the head of the family was operating. Within seconds, the heavy doors of the VIP room were shut, leaving only Lorenzo and Vincent inside.
Vincent swallowed hard, his throat moving visibly. He tried to maintain his confident posture, but the sheer coldness radiating from Lorenzo made it impossible.
"Boss, what's going on?" Vincent asked, his voice losing its polished edge. "Did something happen at the docks? Did the Feds—"
"Where were you three weeks ago, Vincent?" Lorenzo asked quietly. His tone was strangely conversational, almost gentle, which made it infinitely more terrifying.
Vincent blinked, taken aback by the question. "Three weeks ago? I don't know... I was working the docks in Brooklyn. I had meetings in Midtown—"
"You were at my estate," Lorenzo interrupted, taking another step closer. "You attended the charity dinner. And after dinner was served, you went down into the basement level."
Vincent’s face drained of color so quickly it looked as though he had been struck. The cocky, relaxed posture he maintained completely collapsed. His chest heaved as he took a involuntary step backward, his hip knocking against the poker table.
"Lorenzo... listen to me," Vincent stammered, his hands coming up in a defensive gesture. "Whatever she told you... she's lying. She's just a maid! A nobody trying to set me up for money! You know how those girls are—"
CLANG!
Before Vincent could finish his sentence, Lorenzo reached out, grabbed the heavy crystal whiskey decanter from the table, and shattered it across the side of Vincent’s jaw.
The impact sent Vincent crashing to the floor, spilling cards, chips, and blood across the dark velvet carpet. He gasped, clutching his shattered jaw, blood pouring through his fingers.
Lorenzo didn't roar in anger. He didn't lose control. He simply stepped over the broken glass, unholstering his Sig Sauer with a slow, smooth motion. He pointed the barrel directly at the center of Vincent's forehead.
"She didn't ask me for money," Lorenzo said, his voice chillingly calm over the sound of Vincent's ragged breathing. "She was hiding in my kitchen at one in the morning, trembling because she believed you were going to kill her."
"Boss... please," Vincent choked out, blood spilling over his lips as he struggled to speak around his shattered jaw. "I've been loyal to you for five years... I built Queens for you... you're going to put a bullet in my head over a servant?"
Lorenzo looked down at him with an expression of profound, absolute disgust.
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"You brought dirt into my house, Vincent," Lorenzo whispered, leaning down until the steel barrel of his gun pressed directly against the skin between Vincent's eyes. "And in my home, there is no place for filth."
A single silenced shot echoed through the closed room—a soft, metallic POP that was instantly absorbed by the heavy velvet drapes.
