Frank stepped out of the shadows.
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. “Vaccaro moves in 20. Roof of the Lexford. Exchange with the Bratva. Don’t be late.” Frank didn’t ask who. He didn’t trust anyone. But he checked the intel anyway—cross-referencing it with three separate feeds he’d tapped into over the last month. It fit. Vaccaro always took the high ground. He liked to look down on the animals he fed. The Lexford Hotel was a crumbling art deco relic, its upper floors condemned after a fire five years ago. Perfect for a meeting no one was supposed to see.
Vaccaro wasn’t a boss. He was worse. He was the man who stitched the city’s criminal wounds back together—brokering peace between gangs, moving money through offshore shells, selling information to the highest bidder. He was the reason Micro’s killers had walked free. He was the reason Frank’s family was in the ground.
