Chapter 9 - The Shoelace and the Sovereign
Vincent Romano did something that night that neither Sal nor Marco had ever witnessed in fifteen years of blood-soaked service.
He slid out from the booth.
His massive frame unfolded into the dim diner light, towering six feet two inches above the linoleum floor, an imposing silhouette of power and violence. But instead of turning toward the door or ordering his men to clear the room, Vincent sank slowly onto one knee directly in front of the little girl.
The expensive fabric of his charcoal wool trousers settled directly into the pool of muddy rainwater that had gathered beneath her feet. He didn't care.
At eye level with the child, the terrifying mafia Don looked human. His large, tattooed hands reached down toward her left foot. Maya gasped slightly, taking an instinctive step back, but Vincent’s touch was impossibly gentle. His calloused fingers caught the frayed, mud-caked shoelace of her worn canvas sneaker.
With slow, practiced precision, he cleared the grit from the fabric, crossed the wet strings, and tied a neat, double-knotted bow across the tongue of her shoe.
"A soldier never walks into a fight with loose gear," Vincent murmured, his voice low and soothing. "You trip, you lose your footing. Remember that."
He stood up smoothly, looking down at her.
Then, he reached over to the scratched Formica table, scooped up the five-quart pickle jar with one massive hand as though it weighed nothing at all, and placed it gently back into Maya's arms.
Maya looked down at the jar in horror, her lips parting as her eyes flooded with fresh, hot tears. "No... please. You have to take it! I don't want the money, Mr. Romano! I want the house! Please don't give it back—"
"Quiet," Vincent said, the command carrying an authority so gentle yet absolute that her cries hitched instantly in her throat.
He leaned down slightly, his face inches from hers.
"Nobody takes your ice cream money, Maya. Not me. Not the bank. And especially not Arthur Gavalas."
He straightened up and turned his head slightly toward booth number two.
"Marco."
Marco was already on his feet, his newspaper discarded, his face a stone slab. "Boss."
"Call Frankie Scarlatti," Vincent said, his voice dropping into an icy, bureaucratic monotone that signaled an irreversible death sentence for someone's career. "Tell him to meet us at the warehouse on Forty-Eighth in twenty minutes. If he's one second late, take his car."
"Understood," Marco nodded, pulling a black flip phone from his interior pocket.
"And Marco?"
"Yeah, Boss?"
"Call Tony at the title agency," Vincent added, his dark eyes never leaving the girl. "Tell him I want the deed to the brick two-family on Thirty-Fourth Street—the one with the garden and the iron gate. The title goes into the name of Clara Lin. Clean, clear, zero encumbrances, fully paid in perpetuity. If the paperwork isn't on my desk by nine tomorrow morning, Tony can find a new city to practice law in."
Marco’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn't question the order. He merely nodded, turned toward the jukebox, and began dialing with furious speed.
Maya stood paralyzed, clutching her jar against her floral dress, her mouth open, trying to decipher the rapid-fire language of power being traded over her head. She didn't understand deeds, or titles, or Frankie Scarlatti. She only knew that the heavy jar was back in her arms, and the giant man with the tattoos was looking at her as if she were the only person in the city.
May you like
Vincent reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a pristine white linen handkerchief with his initials embroidered in silver silk, and handed it to her.
"Dry your face, kid," Vincent said softly. "The rain's stopping."
