The next evening, Matt sat in the private back room of Giovanni's, the old-school Italian restaurant where the family handled their most delicate business. The dim lights, the aged whiskey, the faint scent of cigars—it was a place of deals, betrayals, and last conversations.
And tonight, it would be Vince Moretti's last.
Miriam sat at the bar near the front, watching for trouble. She had insisted on being close in case things got messy. Matt had only nodded—things would get messy.
The door creaked open. Vince stepped inside, wearing the same easy grin he always did, but Matt could see it now for what it was—a mask.
"Didn't think we were meeting like this," Vince said, taking a seat.
Matt poured two drinks and slid one across the table. "Figured we should catch up."
Vince hesitated, then took the glass. "Appreciate that."
Matt studied him. "We've known each other a long time."
Vince nodded. "Since we were kids."
"Yeah. And in all those years, we had one rule." Matt leaned forward, voice low. "Family first."
Silence.
Vince's grip on his drink tightened, his knuckles whitening. "Matt—"
"Don't," Matt cut him off. His voice was calm, but there was steel behind it. "I saw you. Last night. You met with Russo."
The color drained from Vince's face.
Matt exhaled. "Just tell me why."
Vince swallowed hard. "I didn't have a choice."
Matt's jaw tightened. "There's always a choice."
Vince's hands trembled. "They came to me months ago. They had evidence—enough to put Dominic and half the crew away for life. If I didn't cooperate, they'd pin something on me too. I—I thought I could control it. Feed them scraps. Keep you safe."
Matt stared at him. Safe?
"You think I needed protecting?" His voice was cold now.
Vince's eyes glistened. "I didn't want it to end like this, Matt."
Matt nodded slowly, then picked up his glass and took a sip. "Neither did I."
The silence stretched.
Then, in one smooth motion, Matt reached under the table, pulled his gun, and fired.
One shot.
Vince's body jerked, his drink slipping from his fingers and shattering on the floor. He gasped, eyes wide, a slow trickle of blood running from his lips.
Matt stood, towering over him. "You broke the one rule, Vince."
Vince tried to speak, but no words came.
Another shot.
The room was silent.
Matt exhaled, sliding his gun back into his holster. He turned toward the door, where Miriam now stood, watching.
She didn't ask what happened. She already knew.
"Let's go," Matt said.
Miriam nodded, and they walked out into the night.
Behind them, the last drink Vince Moretti would ever have soaked into the floor—mixed with his blood.