Chapter 16 - The Men Vincent Left Behind

Vincent was in jail.

His machinery was not.

The cleanup schedule named people he considered liabilities.

It also proved he had expected arrest as a possibility.

That meant contingency plans.

Men waiting for instructions.

Money positioned for escape.

Threats that survived him.

Grace refused to leave Long Island.

I compromised by moving her into the guest suite beside the girls’ rooms and assigning security outside the hall.

She called it excessive.

I called it Tuesday.

The first planned attack never happened.

Federal agents arrested two men near Grace’s apartment carrying photographs, an unregistered firearm and a prepaid phone containing Vincent’s instructions.

The arrest added solicitation and witness-tampering evidence.

More important, it scared three other conspirators into cooperating.

One was a Northstar accountant.

He explained the money.

Twenty-three million dollars had not been simple theft.

Vincent spent nearly eleven million bribing officials, buying information and building private loyalty inside my companies.

Another six million funded shell businesses he intended to use after my death.

Three million went to Carlo and others.

The remaining money sat inside trusts designed to activate if Vincent became guardian or trustee for my daughters.

He had monetized their future grief.

I read those documents alone.

Then I vomited in the bathroom.

Not from violence.

From comprehension.

All my life, I had treated betrayal as personal weakness.

You chose the wrong man.

Trusted the wrong soldier.

Ignored the wrong signal.

Now I saw the system I built rewarded betrayal.

I paid loyalty in fear and cash.

Vincent simply bid higher.

The board appointed an independent monitor.

I hated it.

I accepted it.

Romano Harbor Construction survived the audit, but three executives resigned and two were indicted.

Contracts were suspended.

Banks reviewed our credit.

My legitimate empire lost nearly forty percent of its value in six weeks.

Old Dominic would have called that catastrophe.

I looked at my daughters eating pancakes and thought: still cheaper than another funeral.

The criminal side became harder.

Crews sensed weakness.

A rival operation from Brooklyn tested our freight routes.

Two card rooms stopped paying.

Men asked whether Vincent might return.

One evening, six captains sat in my basement meeting room.

Anthony Greco, who had known me since I was nineteen, said, “We need to make an example.”

“Of whom?”

“Everybody.”

I almost admired the efficiency.

“No.”

He frowned.

“Then they’ll think you’re weak.”

“Maybe I am.”

The room went silent.

A year earlier, I would never have spoken those words.

I looked around.

“I’m closing the rooms.”

Nobody breathed.

“What?”

“Illegal gambling. Protection. Cash lending. All of it.”

Anthony laughed.

“You serious?”

“Yes.”

“Because your wife died?”

“Because she died and I finally understood what she spent ten years trying to tell me.”

Men shifted uncomfortably.

“You can’t just close business,” another captain said.

“I opened it.”

“That money feeds families.”

“So do legitimate companies.”

“Not the same money.”

“Exactly.”

Anthony stood.

“If you walk away, someone else takes it.”

“Probably.”

“And then what were the last twenty years for?”

A fair question.

I looked at him.

“A mistake being expensive doesn’t make it valuable.”

He shook his head.

“You’re finished.”

“Maybe.”

“You think these guys follow a suburban father?”

I almost smiled.

“I’m counting on them not following me at all.”

The meeting ended badly.

No shooting.

No threats.

Just men realizing the world they understood was disappearing.

That frightened them.

It frightened me too.

Later, Grace found me alone in the library.

“You closed it?”

“Most of it.”

“You can do that?”

“We’ll see.”

She sat beside me.

“What happens to you?”

“Depends how much evidence federal investigators eventually collect.”

“You could go to prison.”

“Yes.”

She looked angry.

“At least pretend that scares you.”

“It does.”

“Good.”

I turned.

“Why good?”

“Because people who aren’t scared of consequences usually make everyone else pay them.”

I laughed softly.

Then stopped.

“What?”

Grace looked at me differently.

“You laughed.”

“I have before.”

“Not much.”

“Should I apologize?”

“No.”

The quiet between us changed.

For months, grief had made any warmth feel disloyal.

Now something living existed there.

Neither of us touched it.

My phone rang.

Miriam.

“Dominic, prosecutors found something in Vincent’s files.”

“What?”

“Draft guardianship petitions.”

My stomach tightened.

“For the girls?”

“Yes.”

“On what basis?”

“Your alleged incapacity.”

“Grief?”

“Grief, criminal exposure, violence, instability.”

I understood.

Vincent had planned not only to kill Isabelle.

He intended to use her death to break me publicly.

If the car sabotage had eventually worked, he would inherit control.

If it did not, he would portray me as an unfit father and seize control through courts.

Then Miriam added the worst part.

“The petitions contain psychiatric evaluations.”

“I’ve never been evaluated.”

“I know.”

“Then whose signature is on them?”

She told me.

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Dr. Andrew Keller.

One of the trauma specialists I had hired to treat my daughters.