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“Word on the street is that you’d like to expand your stronghold, which I can, of course, understand,” Dominick says casually, as if he’s discussing the weather. “I can even appreciate your ambition. But you forget your position of power is in my city simply because I allow it to be. And your growth, or lack thereof, is also at my discretion.”
Sal sneers, his fingers tightening on his glass. “I’m sure you’d like to think that, wouldn’t you? But I own parts of this city because I work them when you don’t. The people there fear me, not you. They need my drugs, my protection, not yours.”
Dominick nods, still unruffled. “Perhaps. But that is because I’ve let you have the scraps from my table, the areas that are too troublesome for the meager dollars I could wring out of them. Do not think that I’ve not kept my fingers on the pulse of those areas, nor that I could not cut off that pulse with a single twitch of my fingers if I wished. I haven’t concerned myself with your actions. Until now.”
Sal feigns a look of surprise, trying to regain his balance. “My actions? I’ve done nothing but continue my business as usual. Yet, here we are, mourning my son. Dead in your club, let us not forget.”
Sal is playing up the sympathy card with the audience.
Dominick chuckles, playing to the audience as well as he turns away from Sal to look around the room, speaking to those watching. “Ah, yes, Carlos Rivaldi. The bastard son who shows up out of the blue, full of ego and demanding his birthright. Must have put you in an uncomfortable position, not able to deny your blood-son, but he was just so . . .” Dominick pauses dramatically before locking eyes with Sal, “weak. And ungrateful for the scraps you gave him. I dare say, he was much like his father. And how did you handle this?”
Sal stammers, his voice quaking with rage and an undercurrent of worry that tells me he’s scared of what Dominick might say. “I gave him every chance, and then he gets killed on a simple mission.”
Dominick smirks, knowing he’s totally in control of the conversation and where it’s heading. “No, I don’t think you gave him every chance. You knew he was weak, ungrateful, and power-hungry, so you had him killed. On my territory. Such disrespect and ugliness. Especially the part where you’ve been blaming me for his death to anyone who’d listen.”
The reaction to Dominick’s revelation is instant, the crowd of men all murmuring and looking at one another. Sal rears up, finding indignation in Dominick’s accusation. “I would never! He was my son!”
“Perhaps so,” Dominick says before dropping the bomb I know he’s had planned this whole time. “In which case you should know that I am also hunting the hitman who conducted his business on my grounds. I will have revenge for that insult, and it will be slow and painful. I’ll make sure that he tells me everything I wish to know. But beyond that, I would say that having a son who is such a disappointment, who even in a sacrificial death was not able to serve your ends, is punishment enough. Although his mother’s Colombian family may not feel the same way.” Dominick locks eyes with the dark-haired man we all know is the Colombian’s representative at the wake.
Dominick lets that sink in for a moment, silently watching Sal’s face for any response as he realizes that his plan is backfiring in his face. With shaking fingers, he downs the rest of his drink, the ice in the tumbler chattering when he sets it down. “So you’re not here to discuss war.”
Dominick looks amused again and chuckles lightly. “I’m merely here to extend my apologies for your son, and perhaps to share some advice with a fellow businessman.”
“Oh, and what’s that?”
Dominick stops his swirling scotch and tosses it back in one practiced movement, not reacting at all as it burns its way down his throat to explode in his stomach. He sets the empty glass on the table in front of him pointedly, commanding every eye in the room with his presence. “When you are being allowed to scurry and play like mice, it is best to not draw the attention of the cat. Because once the cat has set his sights on you, it’s difficult to circumvent his instincts. His instincts to hunt, to destroy, to own. In the scheme of life, the cat worries not about the mice. They are inconsequential until they become a nuisance. Then, the cat takes delight in playing with them, until eventually, he kills them.”
Sal looks a bit flushed, the tip of his olive nose and cheeks ruddy with fury, and maybe alcohol, but he manages to keep it together, trying to save face with the room full of his men who are now looking at him with new eyes. “Excellent advice, I’m sure. Thank you.”
