THE KING'S LAST GAMBLE

The War Begins

The explosion came at 9:47 AM.

Dominic was in his study when the windows rattled and the chandelier swayed. A distant boom, followed by the wail of sirens. He was on his feet before Marco burst through the door.

"Boss—one of our warehouses. Red Hook."

Dominic's jaw tightened. "Casualties?"

"Three dead. Two wounded. The shipment is gone."

The shipment. Forty million dollars' worth of product, scheduled to move through the port that afternoon. Only five people had known the exact time and location.

"Who's there now?"

"Paulie's team. They secured the perimeter."

"Get me Vincent. Now."

---

Vincent arrived twenty minutes later, his face pale.

"I just heard," he said. "I'm sorry, Dominic. I should have—"

"You should have what?" Dominic cut him off. "You should have known? You should have prevented it? Tell me, Vincent—how do you prevent an attack when the enemy knows your every move?"

Vincent didn't answer.

"Someone is feeding Sal information," Dominic continued. "The captain. The sniper. Now this. Every time I turn around, another piece of my empire is burning. And you keep telling me you're investigating, but I have nothing to show for it."

"I'm doing everything I can."

"Then do more." Dominic walked to his desk and picked up the folder Elena had given him. "Carlo Vespucci. The man you met in Red Hook. Where is he now?"

Vincent hesitated. "I don't know. He stopped answering my calls two days ago."

"Of course he did. Because he was preparing for this." Dominic threw the folder onto the desk. "Sal used him to feed you false information. He knew you were investigating. He knew you would report back to me. And while we were chasing shadows, he was planning the real attack."

Vincent's face went white. "You think I'm the leak."

"I think you're either the leak or the fool who let the leak happen." Dominic's voice was quiet, controlled. "Either way, I can't trust you right now."

The words hung in the air. Vincent's hands trembled, but he didn't speak.

"Get out," Dominic said. "Find Vespucci. Bring him to me alive. And if you can't do that, don't come back at all."

Vincent nodded once and left.

---

Dominic sat alone, the silence pressing in around him. His chest ached, and his hands were shaking. The stress was making his condition worse—Dr. Haddad had warned him about that. But there was no time to rest. Sal Vane was attacking from every direction, and if Dominic didn't find the traitor soon, there would be nothing left to save.

His phone rang. Federico.

"I'm at the airport," the old man said. "Where do you need me?"

"The estate. And Federico—bring everything you have on Sal Vane. Everything."

"I already have it. I'll be there within the hour."

Dominic hung up and stared at the photographs on his desk. Adrian and the Vane associate. Vincent and the former soldier. Luca, watching them both.

One of them was the traitor. Or maybe all of them were. Maybe the entire organization had been compromised years ago, and Dominic was the last one to know.

He picked up his phone and sent a message to all three candidates:

Emergency meeting. My office. One hour.

---

They arrived separately, as always. Adrian first, his suit immaculate, his expression wary. Luca second, quiet and watchful. Vincent last, his face still pale from their earlier confrontation.

Dominic stood behind his desk, a map of the city spread out in front of him. Red markers indicated the sites of recent attacks—Marchetti's murder, the sniper, the warehouse explosion.

"Someone in this room is working with Sal Vane," Dominic said. "I don't know who. I don't know why. But I'm going to find out."

Adrian spoke first. "And you think making us stand here like suspects is going to help?"

"I think it's time to stop pretending." Dominic looked at each of them. "The tests are over. The succession is over. We have a common enemy, and until he's dead, none of us can afford to fight each other."

"So what do you want?" Luca asked.

"I want proof of loyalty. Not words. Action." Dominic pointed to the map. "Sal has operations in three cities. Miami, Atlanta, Chicago. Each of you will take one city. You'll destroy his infrastructure, kill his lieutenants, and bring me proof."

"And if one of us is the traitor?" Adrian asked.

"Then you'll have to decide whether betraying me is worth the risk."

Vincent stepped forward. "I'll take Miami."

Dominic studied him. "Miami is Sal's main base. You'll be walking into the lion's den."

"I know."

"Then you're either very brave or very stupid."

"Maybe both." Vincent met his eyes. "But I'm not a traitor. And I'll prove it."

Dominic nodded slowly. "Adrian. Chicago. Luca. Atlanta. You leave tonight."

Luca's expression didn't change. "And what will you be doing while we're gone?"

"Finding the evidence that proves which one of you should be punished."

---

After they left, Dominic sat down heavily. The pain in his chest was worse now—a sharp, stabbing sensation that radiated down his arm.

Federico arrived an hour later, his white hair disheveled from travel, his eyes sharp despite his age. He had been Dominic's consigliere for thirty years before retiring to Florida, and he was the only man Dominic trusted completely.

"You look like hell," Federico said, sitting across from him.

"I feel worse."

"Your heart?"

"The doctors say months. Maybe less."

Federico was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "You need to choose an heir, Dominic. Not later. Now."

"I can't. Not until I know who the traitor is."

"Then find out. And when you do, kill them. No mercy. No hesitation." Federico leaned forward. "You built this empire on blood. You can't save it with sentiment."

Dominic stared at the map on his desk. Three cities. Three candidates. And somewhere in the darkness, Sal Vane was watching, waiting, preparing to strike.

"I'm sending them on suicide missions," Dominic said quietly. "I want to see who survives. I want to see who tries to run. And I want to see who reports back to Sal the moment they're alone."

Federico nodded. "Good. But you need to be ready for the consequences. One of them won't come back."

"I know."

"And you need to be ready to kill whoever it is."

Dominic closed his eyes. "I know."

---

That night, Dominic stood by the window of his study and watched the city lights flicker in the distance. His chest ached, and his hands were cold. He was running out of time.

His phone buzzed. A text from the unknown number:

The war has begun. But you're playing my game now.

Dominic typed back: I'm the one who taught you how to play.

The response came fast: No, old man. You taught me how to win. There's a difference.

Dominic set the phone down. He looked at the photograph on his desk—his sons, young and innocent, before the world had corrupted them.

Then he picked up the phone and called Adrian.

"Be careful in Chicago. Sal knows you're coming."

"I know."

"And Adrian—if you find the traitor, don't kill them. Bring them to me. I want to look them in the eye before they die."

Adrian was silent for a moment. Then: "Understood."

Dominic hung up and sat in the darkness. The war had begun. And by the time it ended, one of his sons would be dead.

He just didn't know which one.