Dawn on the Water

The rain had finally relented, leaving the city slick and gleaming under the nascent dawn. It was a fragile peace, a momentary pause before the relentless cycle of the metropolis resumed its clamor. Joseph Vincetti stood at the edge of the docks, the murky water of the river a dark mirror reflecting the bruised sky. The air tasted of salt and decay, a familiar perfume of the underworld, but tonight, it was tinged with something else—the metallic tang of blood.

Tony found him there, a silhouette against the vast, indifferent expanse of the water. He’d been searching, of course. His loyalty was a compass that always pointed true north, always to Vincetti. The younger man approached with the quiet efficiency that had earned him a place by the Boss’s side. He stopped a respectful distance away, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the scene before him.

Vincetti was methodically washing his hands in a shallow puddle that had formed on the uneven cobblestones. The water, already tainted with the grime of the docks, was quickly turning a dull, rusty red. Each movement was deliberate, unhurried, as if he were performing a sacred ritual. He didn't flinch at the cold, didn't seem to notice the grit that clung to his skin.