Chapter 3 - The Order of Extraction
Dominic Salvatore stood up from Table Four.
He was a tall man, broad-shouldered despite his fifty-five years, wearing a dark navy bespoke suit that fitted his muscular frame perfectly. When he stood, every man in the room—including his own armed bodyguards—straightened their posture automatically.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a gold clip filled with hundred-dollar bills, and tossed it onto the table beside the spilled wine.
He looked around the main dining room of L’Oasis.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dominic spoke, his voice echoing cleanly off the marble walls and vaulted ceiling. “Tonight’s dinner is on me. The management will ensure your vehicles are brought around to the side entrance. You will leave quietly. You will forget the details of this evening. If I read so much as a single line about table four in the paper tomorrow morning, I will buy the newspaper company and fire every person who works there—after I find out who talked.”
No one argued. No one hesitated.
Within three minutes, the wealthy elite of Manhattan filed out through the side exit in absolute, terrifying order, their coat collars pulled up, eyes fixed on the floorboards as Vincent’s men escorted them to the street.
When the heavy doors clicked shut, only six people remained in the vast, glittering dining room: Dominic, Isabella, Elena, Vincent, and two armed bodyguards standing by the kitchen doors.
Isabella was on her knees now, clutching the hem of Dominic’s trousers, her blood-red silk dress crumpled against the wet carpet.
“Dominic, please!” she sobbed, her voice echoing pathetically against the high ceilings. “I was forced! Anthony Moretti threatened to kill me! He threatened to tell you about my past if I didn't give him the shipping codes! I did it to protect us!”
Dominic looked down at her as if she were a dirty rag caught on the heel of his shoe.
“Anthony Moretti doesn't threaten people with letters, Isabella,” Dominic said coldly. “He buys people. And you were very cheap.”
Dominic kicked his leg free from her grip, stepping back.
“Vincent.”
“Yes, Boss?”
“Take her to the secondary property in Westchester,” Dominic instructed, pulling a clean white handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiping his hands. “Put her in the basement suite. Strip her of the jewelry, the phones, the cards, and the silk. Give her a grey sweat-suit and water. No visitors until I speak with Anthony Moretti face-to-face.”
“Dominic! No! You can't do this to me! I am your wife!” Isabella shrieked as Vincent’s heavy hands clamped under her armpits, lifting her off the floor like a sack of laundry.
“You were my wife,” Dominic corrected her, his tone flat. “Now you are an asset under administrative recovery.”
As Vincent and another guard dragged the screaming, sobbing woman toward the rear service exit, the high-pitched echoes of her frantic pleas slowly faded into the concrete corridors of the building, leaving only the quiet patter of rain against the outer glass.
Dominic turned to face Elena.
He looked at her for a long, calculating moment. She had not moved an inch. She stood beside Table Four, her hands relaxed at her sides, her breathing completely calm despite the violence that had just unfolded before her eyes.
“You have ice in your veins, Miss Vance,” Dominic said, stepping closer to her.
“I had a good teacher,” Elena replied. “My father taught me that anger is useless unless it’s organized into an itinerary.”
Dominic let out a low, rough laugh—a rare sound that made his two remaining bodyguards glance at each other in subtle surprise.
“An itinerary,” Dominic repeated, approving of the phrase. “I like that. But you made a dangerous mistake tonight, Elena.”
Elena tilted her head. “Did I?”
“You exposed my wife in public,” Dominic said, his eyes darkening. “You exposed my security vulnerabilities in front of my underbosses. And now you know things about my shipping lines that only three people in this city are supposed to know.”
He took one more step forward, stopping just six inches away from her. The heavy, masculine scent of dark tobacco, expensive cologne, and rain radiated from him.
“Why should I let you walk out of this restaurant tonight?” Dominic asked softly.
Elena didn't step back. She met his gaze directly, her dark eyes clear and unblinking under the chandelier light.
“Because, Mr. Salvatore,” Elena said, her voice smooth as silk, “the information on that USB drive is encrypted. And the decryption key is inside my head. If I don't walk out of here alive, the secondary server in Zurich automatically sends the complete unredacted wire-transfer logs—including your private accounts—directly to the Federal District Attorney’s Office at 8:00 AM tomorrow morning.”
Dominic stared at her.
May you like
Then, slowly, a cold, genuine smile spread across his hard features.
“Well played,” Dominic whispered. “Come with me. We have a war to plan.”
