Chapter 5 - WHAT VINCENT CASTELLANO WAS AFRAID OF
Vincent had been called many things.
Cold.
Dangerous.
Ruthless.
Calculating.
Nobody called him afraid.
That did not mean he wasn't.
He had simply learned young that fear shown publicly became a weapon somebody else could use.
His father taught him that.
Salvatore Castellano had ruled his family through respect when possible and terror when necessary.
Vincent inherited both the surname and the expectation attached to it.
He spent twenty years trying to make the family money legitimate.
Construction.
Warehouses.
Restaurants.
Waste management.
Commercial real estate.
Still, old relationships remained.
Old debts.
Old rules.
Old men who believed disputes should end in alleys rather than courtrooms.
Marco Moretti was one of them.
When Vincent was younger, he understood Marco.
Now Marco exhausted him.
The next attack came Friday.
Nobody touched Amelia.
Instead, somebody set fire to Castellano’s storage room.
The fire department contained it.
No injuries.
Then an inspector arrived at two other Castellano businesses.
Then suppliers suddenly refused deliveries.
Then someone smashed Tony’s car windows.
Message received.
Amelia came to the diner the next morning despite Vincent telling Tony she shouldn't.
Vincent found her sweeping broken glass.
“What are you doing?”
“My job.”
“You have a concussion.”
“Had.”
“Doctor said two weeks.”
“Doctor doesn't pay rent.”
“I will.”
The second the words left his mouth, Vincent regretted them.
Amelia slowly lowered the broom.
“There it is.”
“I meant—”
“I know exactly what you meant.”
She stepped closer.
“You want to solve everything with money or fear.”
“Usually works.”
“Not on me.”
“I noticed.”
She returned to sweeping.
Vincent took the broom.
She tried to take it back.
He held it away.
“You're insufferable.”
“So I've been told.”
“By women?”
“Mostly judges.”
That made her laugh despite herself.
Vincent swept.
Badly.
“Give me that.”
“No.”
“You're pushing glass under the booth.”
“I employ people for this.”
“Apparently for a reason.”
He handed it back.
For thirty seconds they were simply two people in a damaged diner.
Then Amelia asked:
“Why haven't you gone after Moretti?”
Vincent became still.
“Who says I haven't?”
“Because nobody has ended up dead.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I'm relieved.”
She leaned against the counter.
“But from what everyone says about you, I assumed…”
“That I'd start a war?”
“Yes.”
Vincent looked around the diner.
His father’s photograph hung above the register.
“If I were thirty, maybe.”
“And now?”
“Now I understand funerals are expensive.”
She looked at him.
He wasn't joking.
“When I was twenty-seven, my younger brother was killed.”
Amelia said nothing.
“Not because he did anything.”
Vincent continued.
“Because somebody wanted to hurt me.”
Her expression changed.
“He was twenty-two.”
“I'm sorry.”
“I retaliated.”
Vincent stared at his hands.
“Three more men died before it stopped.”
Amelia felt cold.
“Did it make you feel better?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because everyone around me said if I didn't respond, I'd look weak.”
He laughed once.
“You know what weak looks like?”
She waited.
“Letting dead men decide how many living people come home.”
For the first time, Amelia understood the exhaustion behind Vincent’s eyes.
He wasn't a man desperate to prove violence made him strong.
He was a man who had already learned what violence cost.
“What will you do now?”
“Something Moretti won't expect.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She frowned.
“That's the plan?”
“For forty-eight hours.”
“Why?”
“People who want a reaction make mistakes when they don't get one.”
Vincent was right.
Marco made his mistake the following evening.
Derek approached Angela outside her apartment.
He did not touch her.
He handed her an envelope.
“Give this to Amelia.”
Angela immediately called police.
The envelope contained photographs.
Amelia leaving work.
Amelia shopping.
Amelia entering the police station.
One photograph of Angela.
One of Tony.
One of Mr. Del Monaco.
At the bottom:
THE PHONE FOR THEIR SAFETY.
Amelia stared.
“This is because of me.”
Vincent answered instantly.
“No.”
“You don't know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“How?”
“Because they chose to threaten innocent people.”
She looked at him.
“That's on them.”
The words sounded familiar.
Detective Russo had said something similar about Raymond.
Responsibility belonged to the person choosing harm.
Not the person being harmed.
That night Amelia made a decision.
“No deal.”
Vincent looked at her.
“What?”
“I give the recordings to federal investigators.”
“You already agreed.”
“All of them.”
“There may be things that embarrass you.”
“I don't care.”
“Things about Raymond hurting you.”
“I know.”
Vincent watched her.
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
That answer surprised him.
Amelia continued:
“I keep waiting to stop being afraid before I do something.”
She touched the old scar.
Then deliberately lowered her hand.
“Maybe courage is doing it while I'm still afraid.”
The next morning the entire phone was copied into federal evidence.
Forty-eight hours later agents raided three Moretti-controlled businesses.
Marco Moretti disappeared.
Derek Lawson disappeared with him.
And Raymond Fletcher, sitting in federal custody, realized his value as an informant had just collapsed.
That afternoon, Vincent received a call.
Raymond.
“How did you get this number?”
“I know people.”
“What do you want?”
Raymond laughed softly.
“You think you're protecting her?”
Vincent said nothing.
“I know Amelia.”
“No.”
“You don't.”
“Neither do you.”
Raymond's voice hardened.
“She needs someone stronger than her.”
Vincent looked through his office window.
Below, Amelia was at the diner helping Tony reset tables after the fire repairs.
“No,” Vincent said.
“She spent six years with you because you convinced her she wasn't strong.”
Silence.
Vincent continued.
“That's different.”
Raymond breathed heavily.
“You sleeping with her?”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“No.”
“Want to?”
Vincent disconnected.
Two hours later Amelia knocked on his office door.
“Why do you look like you want to punch a wall?”
“Nothing.”
“Raymond called you.”
Vincent stared.
“How?”
“Your face.”
“He asked about you.”
“What did you tell him?”
Vincent hesitated.
Amelia narrowed her eyes.
“What?”
“He asked if I wanted you.”
Silence.
“And?”
Vincent looked directly at her.
“I hung up.”
Something shifted in the room.
Amelia crossed her arms.
“Coward.”
Vincent almost choked.
“What?”
“You're supposedly the scariest man in Brooklyn.”
“I've heard.”
“And that's what scares you?”
He stood.
“Amelia.”
She didn't move.
For one dangerous second they were inches apart.
Vincent lowered his voice.
“You have enough happening without me confusing things.”
“That's surprisingly responsible.”
“I hate how shocked you sound.”
She smiled.
Then his phone rang.
The moment broke.
Vincent answered.
His expression changed immediately.
“What?”
He listened.
“When?”
Another pause.
“I'm coming.”
He hung up.
“What happened?”
Vincent grabbed his coat.
“They found Derek.”
“Where?”
“Under the Manhattan Bridge.”
Amelia went pale.
“Dead?”
Vincent looked at her.
“No.”
“Then what?”
“He wants to talk.”
“To police?”
Vincent shook his head.
May you like
“To you.”
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