Page 111 of Blood Vows

Marco

There were two kinds of power in New York. The kind that wore a crown—loud, bloody, impossible to ignore, and the kind that moved quietly through numbers, favors, and secrets until the city realized it had been owned for years. Marco Camorra had never needed the first, but he preferred the second.

He sat alone in the back office of the Camorra social club, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the glow of a single desk lamp turning the room into a narrow island of light. Outside, the club pulsed with life—low music, laughter, the clink of glasses, men pretending they weren’t killers.

Inside, it was just Marco, a laptop, and a ledger that didn’t exist. He stared at the numbers on the screen without blinking. Not because they surprised him—but because they didn’t make sense. Money didn’t disappear. Not real money, and certainly not Camorra money.

He’d built Luca’s empire alongside him—quietly and carefully, making sure every dollar that came in was accounted for and every dollar that went out had a reason behind it. The Camorra’s didn’t lose money. They moved it, they weaponized it, they buried it. But lately, it was vanishing.

Marco dragged two fingers down the trackpad, scrolling through shell companies and offshore transfers, his mind running faster than the machine could keep up. Patterns emerged like ghosts in fog—repeating identifiers, matching timestamps, the same routing paths used again and again as if someone thought repetition would look like normal business, but it didn’t. Repetition was how amateurs got caught.

Marco leaned back in his chair, his gaze lifting to the darkened window. His reflection stared back at him—controlled, unreadable, the kind of face that didn’t invite questions. He was the kind of man who made sure no one ever asked the wrong one twice.

A knock tapped at the door. Three short knocks, and he knew that it had to be Dante. Marco closed his laptop with a soft click and stood. “Come in.” Dante Vitale stepped inside like he belonged to the shadows—broad shoulders, black coat, eyes that were always assessing exits and angles. He didn’t waste time pretending this was a social call.

“You’re up late,” Dante said.

Marco’s brow rose slightly. “I had to handle a problem,” he said.

“It’s a Camorra problem,” Dante replied. “But then again, they all are Camorra problems.” That made Marco smile. Everything was a Camorra problem. Most of them just didn’t cause him as much of a headache as the current one.

He followed Dante through the club without looking at the dancers or the men who nodded as they passed by. Marco wasn’t Luca—the king. He wasn’t Dante—the blade. He was the hand behind the curtain. The one who decided who lived comfortably and who ended up missing, and that gave him some credibility.

Dante led him down a corridor that ended at a steel door Marco hadn’t seen opened in months. Two guards moved aside instantly. Inside, the air was colder. The room wasn’t built for comfort, with its concrete floor, single table, and chair. A faint hum from hidden electronics was the only sound in the room. A place designed for truth—one way or another.

Luca Camorra stood at the far end of the room, with his jacket off and his white shirt open at the collar. His sleeves were rolled back like he was preparing to get his hands dirty. He looked up when Marco entered. There was no greeting. No warmth. Luca didn’t waste his charisma in private.

“We have a breach,” Luca said. Marco’s gaze flicked to the table. A folder sat there, and beside it, a thumb drive.

Marco didn’t touch either. “We’ve had breaches for weeks.”

Luca’s eyes sharpened. “This one has your signature on it.” That landed like a blade between ribs—quiet, surgical, sudden. Marco kept his mask in place. His mind, however, shifted instantly into calculation and problem-solving.

“My signature?” he asked.

Luca nodded. “It’s encrypted, but yes.” Dante moved to the side of the room, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the door like he expected it to explode. Marco stepped forward, picked up the thumb drive, and turned it over between his fingers. It was plain, unmarked, and cheap—like the kind you could buy at any corner store. Which meant whoever brought it here didn’t care if it got traced—or they wanted it to be traced by Luca.

“Where did you get this?” Marco asked.

Luca’s jaw flexed. “A woman showed up at one of our secondary drop locations. Said she had something that belonged to us.”

Marco’s eyes lifted to meet Luca’s. “And you let her walk in—no questions asked?”

“She didn’t walk in,” Dante said. “She showed up with two men who were trying to put her in a van.”

Marco’s attention snapped to Dante. “Was it Romani?”

Dante’s expression didn’t change. “No, it wasn’t Romani.” Marco didn’t like that. If it wasn’t Romani, then that meant someone else had entered the city and thought they could grab a woman off the street with Camorra watchers nearby. They were either stupid or sending them a message.

Luca slid the folder across the table toward Marco. “Her name is Valentina Russo.”

Marco opened the folder, scanning the first page. A photograph stared back at him of a woman with her dark hair pulled back, and face angled slightly away from the camera like she’d sensed she was being watched. Her eyes were sharp, even in a still image, as if she’d already calculated the cost of every gaze on her. There was no softness there—only restraint.

Marco turned the page and quickly read the summary.

Forensic accountant.

Consultant.