Chapter 37: Oh where, oh where...

The next morning, at a scrapyard near the city’s outskirts, the ground was still slick from last night’s storm. The air smelled of rust and damp oil. Sunlight pressed through the thinning clouds, glaring off metal heaps like nothing had happened.

Men worked lazily across the yard, their movements slow and steady, the sound of crashing steel echoing in rhythm.

A black sedan rolled in, its tires cutting through puddles until it stopped beside another car.

Leaning against that car was a man in a worn suit, cigarette hanging from his lips. He looked too tired to care about the smell around him. Special Agent Jim Holt, FBI.

Vittorio Falcone stepped out, dressed in an immaculate white suit that almost glowed against the grime of the yard.

Jim dropped the cigarette, crushed it under his heel, and dragged a hand down his unshaven face.

“Man… you couldn’t wait till evening? I got sleep to catch up on.”

“You’ll be busy this evening,” Vittorio said, handing him a folded slip of paper.

Jim frowned and unwrapped it. “Desmond Martini,” he read aloud. “Who the fuck is that?”

“He’s a junior agent in the Bureau,” Vittorio said simply, walking past him toward the deeper end of the yard. “I need information on him. He’s having dinner with me tonight.”

Jim followed, looking irritated. “What the hell you want with some rookie?”

“When did you start asking questions?” Vittorio’s tone was flat — not aggressive, but dismissive enough to sting.

Jim stopped walking, half-laughing in disbelief. “Whoa, hold on there. I might be dirty, but I ain’t your dog. I do things for you, sometimes even for free, because I respect you — not ‘cause I take orders.”

Vittorio didn’t break stride. He didn’t even glance back.

Jim exhaled hard, scratching the back of his neck. “Alright,” he muttered, giving in. “I’ll get it done. Send me the location. But I need to know what the hell’s going on, Vitto. Streets’ve gone cold. Everyone’s shutting shop. Word is, you declared war on the Five Families. That true?”

“Just do what I asked,” Vittorio said, finally looking at him. “You’ll know what I want you to know. Better you stay in the dark — otherwise you might end up getting whacked by some homeless guy with a Glock.”

Jim gave a dry chuckle. “Funny you think the dark’s safer. With how things are now, information’s the only armor left. Especially if the Five Families are finally making a move — after years of fattening their asses on those wretched chairs.”

Vittorio scoffed faintly, but said nothing.

Jim went on, shaking his head. “Anyway, man, I’m just trying to wrap my head around all this. I saw what you did with the Gambino kid — which I thought was fucked up, until I heard what the Giordanos pulled a few days ago.”

That made Vittorio pause. His eyes flicked toward Jim, calm but sharp. “What do you know about that?” he asked carefully.

“What? The Gambino kid?” Jim said, half confused. “You whacked him in the Hudson Yard toilets, stuffed the poor bastard in a compartment. Don’t know how you pulled that off, but hey — it did lure the Gambinos to the penthouse, where you almost wiped them out. Still don’t know why you left Ross alive, though. Fat-faced prick deserved it.”

Vittorio said nothing. Inside, he was hearing this all for the first time. Outside, his face was unreadable. He nodded slowly, pretending to approve, to own the carnage Jim was describing.

Jim smirked, mistaking Vittorio’s silence for pride. “I gotta hand it to you, though. Using your daughter to lure the Gambino kid out? That was cold — mad genius.”

“Who?” Vittorio asked — too fast, too sharp. “Francesca?”

Jim scoffed. “Unless you’ve got some bastard child I don’t know about. C’mon, Vitto, I’m not an idiot. I can connect dots. Didn’t get into the Bureau for nothing.”

Vittorio’s mind was reeling. He had called home last night — Benny said Francesca was in her room, unwell. He hadn’t thought much of it, just assumed she was still shaken from the attack. But now—

now the puzzle started to twist into something uglier.

“Was there someone else with her?” Vittorio asked quietly.

Jim raised a brow. “You testing me now? Trying to see if I’m fit to keep working with the Falcones?” He half-laughed, half-glared — but when Vittorio didn’t respond, his tone shifted.

“There was some guy with her. Don’t know who he is. Thought maybe one of your new Sicilian imports, ‘cause even our files come up dry. You really played this one clean, Vitto.”

He grinned, patted Vittorio’s shoulder — then immediately regretted it when Vittorio’s eyes met his. Cold. Distant.

“That’ll be it for today, Jim,” Vittorio said, his voice smooth again. “I’ll expect what I asked for this evening.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a tight bundle of cash, sliding it into Jim’s breast pocket with slow precision. Then he patted the pocket twice and turned away.

Jim couldn’t help grinning as Vittorio walked off. He pulled the bills from his pocket, fanned them slightly, and inhaled the smell of fresh paper.

“Guess I passed the test,” he muttered, smile widening.

Jim drove off first, tires crunching over wet gravel. Vittorio watched until the car disappeared, then slipped into his own vehicle.

Vittorio sat for a long second, silent — jaw tight, at the back sit of the car as the driver started the engine. Then he picked up his phone and dialed a number.

Back at the Falcone Manor, Benny’s phone rang from his bedroom as he brushed in the bathroom, white foam on his lips, robe loosely tied. He spat into the sink and rushed out, nearly slipping on the tiles before grabbing the phone from his bed.

“Hello?”

“Where is Francesca?” Vittorio’s voice came through sharp—cutting, restrained only by fury.

“Vit?” Benny blinked, confused. They had an agreement—no personal calls, only through the office line at a fixed time. “She’s in her room. I told you—she’s sick.”

“Give her the phone,” Vittorio snapped.

“Are you sure?” Benny asked, still trying to catch up.

“I said give her the phone, Benny!” Vittorio barked, his temper cracking through the line.

“Okay, okay, I heard you,” Benny muttered, half yelling back as he tied his robe tighter and shoved his feet into his slippers.

Outside, in the hallway, Aria froze. She had heard every word. The color drained from her face. For days, she had been the one covering for Francesca—lying to benny, reassuring him that she was “recovering.”

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” she whispered, spinning on her heel and darting into her room. She slammed the door, grabbed her phone, and dialed fast.

Back at the motel, sunlight crept through the blinds like slow, broken fingers. Sebastian was still out cold, face buried in the pillow. The phone rang beside him. Lucian reached for it without looking, pressed it to his ear.

“Francesca? You have to—” Aria’s voice broke through, breathless, panicked.

Lucian crushed the phone in his hand—metal and glass cracking with a dry pop. The call cut dead.

“Fuuuckkk!!!” Aria screamed, slamming her fist against her dresser. She stumbled backward until her spine hit the door, breath trembling, panic rising up her throat.

Meanwhile, Benny hurried down the corridor, his robe dragging behind him. His heart raced faster with every step. As he reached Francesca’s door, he hesitated for a moment—then twisted the knob. It turned easily.

He stepped in.

The bed was empty. The sheets, untouched. No sign of her—no perfume in the air, no clothes scattered, nothing. The room was cold, hollow. He checked the bathroom. Empty. Closet. Empty. Under the bed. Nothing.

“Francesca?” His voice shook, barely coming out. His hand tightened on the phone, still pressed to his ear.

“Benny?” Vittorio’s voice came again, low, calm—but deadly calm. The kind that made your throat dry. “Where is my daughter?”

Benny’s chest locked. He could feel the threat bleeding through the line.

“Benny.” Vittorio’s tone sank even lower. “Where. Is. My—”

BANG.

The line crackled.

A sudden, bone-rattling crash—metal on metal. Vittorio’s car spun off the road, glass bursting in all directions, the world flipping sideways as tires screamed. The driver shouted something before the second hit came—harder. The car tumbled, rolling down the embankment, crushing the hood like paper.

Then—silence.

For half a breath.

Then gunfire.

Men in black suits surrounded the wreck, rifles up, opening fire. Bullets tore through the air, through the windows, through what was left of the car. The windshield shattered completely, fragments raining down like shards of light.