Matthew's footsteps echoed through the quiet streets of Hell's Kitchen, the distant hum of city life barely audible over his thoughts. He kept his hand close to his side, ready, as the night swallowed him whole. Frank's words repeated in his mind: Start at the club. A simple directive, but nothing ever was with Moretti.
The club's neon sign flickered as he approached, a gaudy display that clashed with the surrounding darkness. The doors opened as if they were expecting him, and the heavy scent of smoke and perfume hit him like a punch. He stepped inside, scanning the room—a mix of loud music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses.
A man in a sharp suit greeted him with a smile, one that barely reached his eyes. "You Matthew Hale?"
Matthew nodded. "I'm here to see Moretti."
The man didn't flinch but motioned toward the back. "He's expecting you."
Inside Moretti's Club
The backroom was a world apart from the chaos outside—luxury, shadows, and power. A tall, broad-shouldered figure sat behind a desk, his back to Matthew. Vincent Moretti, as untouchable as he was ruthless, leaned in to light a cigar.
"You're here," Moretti said, his voice gravelly. "I didn't think you'd make it this far."
Matthew didn't sit. His eyes scanned the room, noting the exits, the men standing guard by the door. Moretti didn't play games; he made sure nothing happened without his say-so.
"Charlie's dead," Matthew said bluntly. "I know you have answers, and I want them."
Moretti chuckled, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Charlie? He wasn't my problem, Hale. He was a loose end. A mistake that needed cleaning up."
Matthew's blood ran cold. "What was he mixed up in?"
Moretti finally turned, his steely gaze locking with Matthew's. "Charlie? He had his hands in too many pockets, including mine. But that's not why you're here, is it?"
Matthew's fists clenched. "Why did someone send me his picture?"
Moretti took a long drag from his cigar. "Maybe someone's trying to stir the pot. Or maybe they want to finish what was started. Either way, you should walk away. You don't want to be the next casualty in this game."
The Plot Thickens:
Before Matthew could respond, a man in a dark suit walked into the room, holding something in his hand. The man handed it to Moretti, who smiled coldly before turning it over to Matthew.
It was another photo—this time, a more recent one. The image was grainy but clear enough: Charlie, alive, standing outside a building with a familiar face. The man in the photo wasn't just any criminal; he was a key player in a rival syndicate that Moretti had been feuding with for years.
Matthew felt his gut twist. "What does this mean?"
Moretti's smile faded. "It means your partner was playing both sides, Hale. And he wasn't just running his own little operation. He was working for someone else. Someone powerful. Now, the question is, what are you going to do with that knowledge?"
Back to the Past:
As Matthew processed the revelation, the club's energy shifted. The music seemed to drown out, the whispers of patrons fading into the background. And then, a voice broke through the fog of uncertainty.
A figure appeared in the doorway. A woman. Tall, elegant, and with a coldness to her step. Her eyes locked with Matthew's, and something in the back of his mind flickered.
She was familiar.
"You don't remember me, do you?" she said. "I'm Vanessa. Charlie's other partner."
The pieces clicked together. Charlie had more secrets than Matthew had ever imagined, and it seemed he wasn't the only one hunting them down.