Chapter 6

For the next three days, New York seemed to plunge into a silent storm of low pressure. The front pages of the newspapers were plastered with reports of a "gas pipeline explosion" and a "Brooklyn warehouse fire," but anyone who knew anything understood that these were merely fig leaves used to conceal bullet holes and bloodstains.

Clemenza was taken to Carmine’s penthouse in Tribeca. It was a world apart from the old house in Brooklyn, which had always smelled of pasta sauce and worn fabrics. This was a fortress constructed of steel, glass, and polished concrete, as cold and hard as a modern art museum. Massive floor-to-ceiling windows looked down upon the Hudson River, capturing the entire bustling spectacle of Manhattan while sealing out all its warmth.

There were no festive lights for the Feast of Santa Rosalia here, no noisy greetings from neighbors. There were only armed bodyguards patrolling the corridors like phantoms, and the low, constant hum of the central air conditioning.

"For your safety, my dear," Carmine had said.

But he had taken her phone, cut off the apartment's internet, and even the television news channels were locked. This wasn't protection; it was house arrest. Clemenza had become a rare avian specimen trapped in a crystal case, allowed only to watch through the glass as the world outside burned.

On the evening of the third day, the elevator doors to the apartment opened.

Clemenza was sitting on a fifty-thousand-dollar B&B Italia leather sofa, holding a fashion magazine purely for show. She heard heavy footsteps, followed by a voice that was familiar yet laced with a certain cowering servility.

"This place is really something, Carmine. Really something... much grander than my house in Long Island."

It was her father, Tony Rossi.

Clemenza looked up. In just three days, Tony seemed to have aged ten years. His hair, usually slicked back with oil, was disheveled; the bags under his eyes were heavy and dark, and his expensive bespoke suit was marred by visible specks of ash. What shocked her most was that Tony’s left hand was wrapped in thick bandages and suspended in a sling against his chest.

"Cle! Oh, thank God, you look well." Upon seeing his daughter, a flicker of light passed through Tony's eyes—the look of a drowning man spotting driftwood. He walked quickly toward her, intending to hug her, but was stopped dead by a single glance from Carmine.

Carmine, holding a glass of Scotch, did not sit. He leaned against the bar, looking for all the world like a monarch scrutinizing a vassal.

"Sit, Tony." Carmine pointed to the armchair opposite him. "Tell me, how are things in Brooklyn?"

Tony sat down with difficulty, cold sweat beading on his forehead. With his good hand, he tremblingly pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his brow. "It's a disaster, Carmine. Absolute hell. Those Russian lunatics... they don't follow the rules. Last night, they threw Molotov cocktails at two of my pizzerias. And my transport convoy... they were intercepted on the highway in Queens. The drivers had their legs broken."

"And your hand," Carmine added coldly, his gaze resting on the bandage.

"Just a scratch... shrapnel from a stray bullet." Tony gave a dry, hollow laugh, trying to maintain a shred of dignity. "But I'm worried about the union. The longshoremen are in a panic. If we don't pay them more, no one will dare unload the cargo. Carmine, we need... we need more financial support. And manpower."

Clemenza watched the scene in silence. Once, in their home, her father's word had been law; his anger could make the entirety of 18th Avenue tremble. But now, in this cloud-high Manhattan apartment, he was as abject as an old dog with a broken leg, wagging its tail for a new master.

She stood up and walked to the bar.

"Can I get you something to drink, Papa?" Her voice was steady, betraying no emotion.

Tony froze for a moment, as if remembering his daughter was there. "Oh, Cle... just a glass of water. Just water."

Clemenza poured a glass of ice water and walked over to Tony, handing it to him. Tony reached out a shaking hand to take the glass, the ice cubes clinking crisply against the crystal. His eyes met his daughter's for a second before darting away. It was guilt, but even more so, it was shame. He had sold his daughter for a good price, only to find he was still a loser.

"I'll give you the money, Tony." Carmine swirled his glass, the ice spinning in the amber liquid. "But my manpower is stretched thin, too. That old bastard Ivanov has gone to ground, hiding like a turtle in its shell. I'm tearing the city apart looking for him."

"But if the docks shut down..."

"Then let them shut down!" Carmine suddenly raised his voice, his façade of elegance shattering to reveal the brutality beneath. "Do you think I care about a few crates of smuggled cigarettes and olive oil? This is a war! Tony, if we lose, we lose our lives. What good is money then?!"

Tony shrank back from the shout, spilling some water onto the expensive carpet.

"I'm sorry, Carmine. I just... I'm under too much pressure." Tony lowered his head, his voice hoarse.

Carmine took a deep breath, composing himself. He walked over to Clemenza, sliding his arm around her waist and digging his fingers possessively into her hip bone, asserting his ownership.

"Don't worry, Tony. As long as we are family, I won't watch the Rossi name fall." Carmine’s tone softened slightly, though his eyes remained cold. "By the way, how is the investigation into the leak going?"

Clemenza’s heart skipped a beat, but her face maintained that expression of vacant ignorance. She even leaned her head naturally against Carmine's shoulder.

"I... I've checked everyone," Tony stammered. "The only people who knew the plan that day were Paulie and me, and a few of your trusted men. Paulie has been with me for decades, he would never..."

"Everyone has a price, Tony." Carmine cut him off, his gaze sweeping over Tony's face like a blade before glancing thoughtfully at Clemenza in his arms. "Or perhaps it was some... oversight we haven't considered."