Dominic Vance lived in a walk-up in Flatbush.
I'd known this for weeks — part of the standard intelligence gathering that accompanied any awareness of competition. But I'd never acted on the knowledge because Vance, for all his encroachment, had never warranted serious response.
That calculation had changed.
I sat in my room at Mrs. Petrova's, Vex sleeping in her carrier beside me, and let the Memory Palace unspool everything I knew about Vance's operation. His contacts. His clients. His income streams. His vulnerabilities.
The process took three hours. By the time I was done, I had a complete picture — and a plan.
Vance's primary income came from facilitating drug shipments between Brooklyn distributors and suppliers in New Jersey. The arrangement was informal, dependent on relationships rather than contracts, vulnerable to exposure from multiple angles.
His secondary income came from information brokering — selling intelligence about criminal operations to interested parties. Some of those parties were law enforcement. Vance was an informant, which meant he was protected by certain agencies — but also hated by the people he informed on.
His tertiary income came from the kind of work I did: fixer services, problem-solving, gray-area consulting. This was the area where he'd been encroaching on my territory. This was the area where his man had decided to send a message by hurting Vex.
Each income stream could be destroyed. Each vulnerability could be exploited. And none of it required violence.
Violence was messy. Violence created witnesses, evidence, complications. What I had in mind was cleaner.
---
The first call went to a DEA contact I'd cultivated through Dmitri's network.
"The shipment routes for Dominic Vance's operation," I said. "Dates, times, handoff locations. Everything you need for an interdiction that looks like good detective work."
"What do you want in return?"
"Nothing. Consider it a professional courtesy."
The second call went to a Maroni family associate who'd been one of Vance's information-selling victims.
"Dominic Vance has been selling your operations to federal agencies for eighteen months. Here's the proof — audio recordings, financial transfers, documented meetings with handlers."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because someone should know."
The third call went to Konstantin, the territorial broker who'd facilitated my "Moriarty" introduction.
"Vance's network is about to collapse. His suppliers will need new arrangements. His clients will need new fixers. I'm positioned to absorb both."
"You're making a move."
"I'm responding to an attack. There's a difference."
By midnight, the interdiction was scheduled. By morning, the Maroni family knew about Vance's betrayal. By noon, his suppliers were already fielding calls from my intermediaries.
The collapse was systematic. Efficient. The kind of destruction that came from understanding someone's entire operation and dismantling it piece by piece.
No violence. No witnesses. No evidence that pointed back to me.
Just consequences.
---
I visited Vex at the emergency vet's recovery facility on day two. She was stronger — still bandaged, still limited in mobility, but alert and sharp and clearly recovering.
"It's done," I told her. "Vance's operation is finished. His drug routes were seized last night. His criminal contacts know about his informant work. His fixer business is being absorbed by my network."
"How long did it take?"
"Eighteen hours from planning to execution."
She studied me with those ancient eyes. "Was it satisfying?"
I thought about the question honestly. The mechanics had been satisfying — the precision of it, the way each piece had fallen exactly as planned. But the emotion underneath...
"No," I said. "But it was necessary."
"Necessary for revenge, or necessary for reputation?"
"Both." I sat down beside her carrier. "He sent a message by hurting you. I sent a clearer one by destroying him. The underworld needs to understand: touch what's mine, and there's no negotiation. Only consequences."
"And you're comfortable being that person? The one who destroys people who cross him?"
"I'm comfortable protecting what matters to me. The rest is just... tactics."
Vex was silent for a moment. Then she extended her paw through the carrier's mesh, touching my hand the way she had the morning after her surgery.
"I remember telling you once that interesting people either burn out or disappear," she said. "I'm starting to think you might be something else. Something that survives."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation." She pulled her paw back, settling into her carrier. "Now go home. Sleep. You look like you haven't rested in days."
"I haven't."
"Then fix that. I'll be fine. The vet says another week, and I can start moving normally."
I stood up, reluctant to leave but recognizing she was right. The exhaustion of the past few days was catching up with me — the terror of nearly losing her, the focused intensity of destroying Vance, the ongoing pressure of Sherlock's investigation and Jamie's observation and Marcus's unknowing presence in my life.
"I'll be back tomorrow," I said.
"I know you will."
I walked home through Brooklyn streets that felt different than they had a week ago. The underworld knew now: Moriarty protected what was his. The rival fixer who'd touched that protection was already becoming a cautionary tale.
Power demonstrated was power people remembered. And people who remembered your power were people who thought twice before crossing you.
The watch in my pocket had started ticking again — accurate to the second, as if nothing had ever been wrong with it. I didn't check the time. Some mysteries could wait until the immediate crises were resolved.
Vex was alive. Vance was destroyed. And somewhere in the city, everyone who mattered was learning that Cash Dalton — Moriarty — was not someone you crossed without consequences.
The reputation had been abstract before. Now it was written in the ruins of a man who'd made the wrong choice about who to threaten.
I felt nothing except tired. And grateful. And ready to face whatever came next.
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