Vincente leaned back against the sofa, one arm draped casually over the backrest as he surveyed his men. "Gentlemen," he began, his voice low and commanding, "we have much to discuss. The Russians, the Irish, the Chinese - they all think they can challenge our dominance. But we know better, don't we?" His eyes flicked to each man in turn, gauging their reactions.
A tall, lean man with a scar above his left eyebrow nodded. "Aye, boss. We've bled for this, fought for every inch of territory. No one's gonna take it from us now." His hand drifted to the gun concealed beneath his suit jacket.
Vincente's lips curved in a humorless smile. "Damn right. And it's time we remind them of that fact." He turned to a waitress who had approached with a tray of wine, her eyes downcast as she poured the deep red liquid into their glasses. "Leave the bottle," Vincente ordered, not bothering to look at her.
She nodded, setting the bottle on the low table before scurrying away.
Then the men reached for their glasses.
Vincente took a sip of the wine, savoring the rich, full-bodied flavor on his tongue.
He set the glass down with a soft clink, his eyes never leaving the faces of his men. "The Russians have been making noise about expanding their territory in Brooklyn. They think they can muscle in on our turf, but we can't let that happen." His voice was low and dangerous, each word dripping with menace.
A burly man with a thick beard and a jagged scar running down his cheek leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "I say we hit them hard, boss. Take out their warehouses, their shipments, their men. Send a clear message that Brooklyn is ours." He cracked his knuckles, a vicious grin spreading across his face.
Vincente's eyes flashed, and he leaned forward, his face inches from the scarred man's. "And risk starting a full-blown war? No, we need to be smarter than that." He sat back, his gaze sweeping over the group. "I have a better idea. We'll infiltrate their organization, turn their own men against them. Divide and conquer. By the time we're done, they'll be begging to crawl back to Russia."
As Vincente spoke, his gaze drifted to the dance floor, where a group of young women twirled and swayed to the music.
His eyes were immediately drawn to one particular girl, her beauty outshining the rest.
She had long, cascading raven hair that bounced with each step, and eyes the color of a clear summer sky.
Her porcelain skin seemed to glow under the glittering chandeliers, and her lithe, graceful figure moved with a dancer's poise.
Vincente watched, transfixed, as she spun and leaped, her laughter ringing out like a melody.
She was a vision of innocence and joy amidst the hardened criminals surrounding him.
Unable to resist the urge to possess such a rare beauty, Vincente turned to the man seated to his left, a young enforcer named Luca. "Luca," he said, his voice low and commanding, "see that girl on the dance floor? The one with the dark hair and the angelic face?" Luca nodded, his eyes flicking to the girl before returning to his boss.
"Bring her to me," Vincente ordered.
Luca hesitated for a moment, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "Boss, she looks... young. And innocent. Are you sure you want to..." He trailed off, not daring to finish the thought.
Vincente's eyes narrowed, and he leaned in close to Luca, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Did I stutter, Luca? I don't recall asking for your opinion." His gaze bored into the younger man's eyes, the icy blue orbs glinting with a threat. "You were given an order. Now, carry it out. Before I lose my patience."
Luca swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Yes, boss," he said quickly, rising to his feet.
He made his way towards the dance floor, weaving through the crowd of revelers until he reached the girl.
As Luca approached, the girl looked up at him, her blue eyes wide and trusting. "Excuse me, miss," Luca said, trying to keep his voice gentle, "my boss wants to meet you." He gestured towards where Vincente sat, watching their exchange with a hungry gaze.