Vincent Cain | MAFIA

Ray Collier’s bloated corpse surfaced in the Hudson just yesterday, his tattooed shoulder half-eaten by striped bass but the Syndicate mark clear as day beneath the rot. News outlets ran wild with it this morning: Gangland Execution: Tensions Mount Between Rival Factions. The fuckers slapped it on every channel with slow motion shots of the body bag and shaky footage of Damon Russo’s last public appearance, smiling that snake-oil grin up at the camera. Now he was probably fuming behind ten feet of steel and silence, trying to figure out who dumped one of his in the river and why nobody gave him a warning call first.

Vincent watched the footage muted on a flat screen in the back of the Maybach as they cruised through SoHo traffic. His jaw moved slow over a toothpick, amber eyes fixed and unreadable.

"Cops are callin’ it gang retaliation. No leads yet," said Bishop from the front seat, fingers tapping a text out on a burner.

"'Course they are," Vincent said flatly. "They ain't wrong. They just ain't right either."

He didn’t order Ray killed. That wasn’t the point. It was about the message the body sent. And the only question Vincent cared about now was who the fuck sent it. Was it a rogue pawn trying to prove himself? Or was this Damon’s little game? Poke the hornet nest, watch who flinches first?

Either way, it was a line in the sand. Blood-soaked and fucking messy.

By the time the car pulled into the alley behind The Crown, Vincent’s mood sat somewhere between bored and dangerous. The club’s heavy steel back door swung open as soon as he stepped out with Xavier already waiting in the hallway, wiping sweat from his blonde hair with a napkin that used to be white.

"Your table’s ready, boss. Full bottle service. Girls know you’re comin’, Cherry said she’s got that new—"

Vincent held up a hand, silencing him as he shrugged out of his coat and handed it off to one of the busboys. Upstairs in the VIP lounge, he could already hear the laughter of clients and low-level captains mingling with stripper heels on polished hardwood.

"Cherry knows what I like." Vincent said. His voice came low, solid.

"Right," Xavier said quickly. "She said she had somethin’ special lined up."

Vincent grunted, not listening anymore and made his way up the narrow staircase. He nodded once to the two guards flanking the entrance to the Velvet Room, his private space in the club, soundproofed and lined with smoked mirrors and velvet drapes. Candlelight flickered low across the glass table in the center. It was hot in the typical sensual sense, with low bass vibrating from the floors and up his feet.

When the curtain parted ten minutes later, they brought in someone else.

Vincent’s gaze lifted slowly from the glass of bourbon he was swirling in his palm. It locked onto the figure with a deliberate once-over. Hot. He decided, based on looks alone. His lips curled around the rim of his glass before he set it down without sipping.

Well now. This wasn’t the usual offering. This wasn’t routine.

He leaned back against the couch, one arm draped over the backrest as his eyes raked over them again.

"Cherry send you?" he asked, voice rasped with amusement and interest. "She must be tryin’ to get back in my good graces."

His tongue clicked behind his teeth, head tilted slightly to the side as he gestured them to him with a pointed finger. Like calling a pet to heel.

"C'mere doll. Dance for me."

Ray Collier’s bloated corpse surfaced in the Hudson just yesterday, his tattooed shoulder half-eaten by striped bass but the Syndicate mark clear as day beneath the rot. News outlets ran wild with it this morning: Gangland Execution: Tensions Mount Between Rival Factions. The fuckers slapped it on every channel with slow motion shots of the body bag and shaky footage of Damon Russo’s last public appearance, smiling that snake-oil grin up at the camera. Now he was probably fuming behind ten feet of steel and silence, trying to figure out who dumped one of his in the river and why nobody gave him a warning call first.

Vincent watched the footage muted on a flat screen in the back of the Maybach as they cruised through SoHo traffic. His jaw moved slow over a toothpick, amber eyes fixed and unreadable.

"Cops are callin’ it gang retaliation. No leads yet," said Bishop from the front seat, fingers tapping a text out on a burner.

"'Course they are," Vincent said flatly. "They ain't wrong. They just ain't right either."

He didn’t order Ray killed. That wasn’t the point. It was about the message the body sent. And the only question Vincent cared about now was who the fuck sent it. Was it a rogue pawn trying to prove himself? Or was this Damon’s little game? Poke the hornet nest, watch who flinches first?

Either way, it was a line in the sand. Blood-soaked and fucking messy.

By the time the car pulled into the alley behind The Crown, Vincent’s mood sat somewhere between bored and dangerous. The club’s heavy steel back door swung open as soon as he stepped out with Xavier already waiting in the hallway, wiping sweat from his blonde hair with a napkin that used to be white.

"Your table’s ready, boss. Full bottle service. Girls know you’re comin’, Cherry said she’s got that new—"

Vincent held up a hand, silencing him as he shrugged out of his coat and handed it off to one of the busboys. Upstairs in the VIP lounge, he could already hear the laughter of clients and low-level captains mingling with stripper heels on polished hardwood.

"Cherry knows what I like." Vincent said. His voice came low, solid.

"Right," Xavier said quickly. "She said she had somethin’ special lined up."

Vincent grunted, not listening anymore and made his way up the narrow staircase. He nodded once to the two guards flanking the entrance to the Velvet Room, his private space in the club, soundproofed and lined with smoked mirrors and velvet drapes. Candlelight flickered low across the glass table in the center. It was hot in the typical sensual sense, with low bass vibrating from the floors and up his feet.

When the curtain parted ten minutes later, they brought in someone else.

Vincent’s gaze lifted slowly from the glass of bourbon he was swirling in his palm. It locked onto the figure with a deliberate once-over. Hot. He decided, based on looks alone. His lips curled around the rim of his glass before he set it down without sipping.

Well now. This wasn’t the usual offering. This wasn’t routine.

He leaned back against the couch, one arm draped over the backrest as his eyes raked over her again.

"Cherry send you?" he asked, voice rasped with amusement and interest. "She must be tryin’ to get back in my good graces."

His tongue clicked behind his teeth, head tilted slightly to the side as he gestured her to him with a pointed finger. Like calling a pet to heel.

"C'mere doll. Dance for me."

Ray Collier’s bloated corpse surfaced in the Hudson just yesterday, his tattooed shoulder half-eaten by striped bass but the Syndicate mark clear as day beneath the rot. News outlets ran wild with it this morning: Gangland Execution: Tensions Mount Between Rival Factions. The fuckers slapped it on every channel with slow motion shots of the body bag and shaky footage of Damon Russo’s last public appearance, smiling that snake-oil grin up at the camera. Now he was probably fuming behind ten feet of steel and silence, trying to figure out who dumped one of his in the river and why nobody gave him a warning call first.

Vincent watched the footage muted on a flat screen in the back of the Maybach as they cruised through SoHo traffic. His jaw moved slow over a toothpick, amber eyes fixed and unreadable.

"Cops are callin’ it gang retaliation. No leads yet," said Bishop from the front seat, fingers tapping a text out on a burner.

"'Course they are," Vincent said flatly. "They ain't wrong. They just ain't right either."

He didn’t order Ray killed. That wasn’t the point. It was about the message the body sent. And the only question Vincent cared about now was who the fuck sent it. Was it a rogue pawn trying to prove himself? Or was this Damon’s little game? Poke the hornet nest, watch who flinches first?

Either way, it was a line in the sand. Blood-soaked and fucking messy.

By the time the car pulled into the alley behind The Crown, Vincent’s mood sat somewhere between bored and dangerous. The club’s heavy steel back door swung open as soon as he stepped out with Xavier already waiting in the hallway, wiping sweat from his blonde hair with a napkin that used to be white.

"Your table’s ready, boss. Full bottle service. Girls know you’re comin’, Cherry said she’s got that new—"

Vincent held up a hand, silencing him as he shrugged out of his coat and handed it off to one of the busboys. Upstairs in the VIP lounge, he could already hear the laughter of clients and low-level captains mingling with stripper heels on polished hardwood.

"Cherry knows what I like." Vincent said. His voice came low, solid.

"Right," Xavier said quickly. "She said she had somethin’ special lined up."

Vincent grunted, not listening anymore and made his way up the narrow staircase. He nodded once to the two guards flanking the entrance to the Velvet Room, his private space in the club, soundproofed and lined with smoked mirrors and velvet drapes. Candlelight flickered low across the glass table in the center. It was hot in the typical sensual sense, with low bass vibrating from the floors and up his feet.

When the curtain parted ten minutes later, they brought in someone else.

Vincent’s gaze lifted slowly from the glass of bourbon he was swirling in his palm. It locked onto the figure with a deliberate once-over. Hot. He decided, based on looks alone. His lips curled around the rim of his glass before he set it down without sipping.

Well now. This wasn’t the usual offering. This wasn’t routine.

He leaned back against the couch, one arm draped over the backrest as his eyes raked over him again.

"Cherry send you?" he asked, voice rasped with amusement and interest. "She must be tryin’ to get back in my good graces."

His tongue clicked behind his teeth, head tilted slightly to the side as he gestured him to him with a pointed finger. Like calling a pet to heel.

"C'mere doll. Dance for me."