Chapter Two: Old Ties, Tight Noose
The first person he saw from the old world was Frankie "Keys" DiBello—so named because he could open a safe faster than a priest could fake remorse. Frankie still ran La Scala, the jazz bar that served as the front for midtown operations. Same red velvet booths, same hazy saxophone blues. But Frankie looked older. Softer. Like a man who'd survived more than he should have.
"You're supposed to be dead or gone, Vin," Frankie said, his voice low but tight. "Jesus, you got brass coming here like this."
Vincent gave a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You still got that twenty grand I left you? Or'd you blow it on girls and garbage wine?"
Frankie winced, reached under the bar, and pulled out a slim leather envelope. "I held it. Like I said I would."
Vin took it, didn't count it. Trust was a rare currency, but some debts weren't about money.
"I'm not here to start trouble," he said, sliding into a booth. "I'm here to finish something."
Frankie raised an eyebrow. "The crew's not the same. Carlo took your seat. Luca runs downtown now. You start rattling cages—"
"I'm not here for the chair," Vincent said. "I'm here for the truth. I want to know who handed me over."
Frankie stared at him, and for a moment the jazz died in the background. "Vin, that truth might just kill you."
"Then let it try."