Chapter 3 - The Confrontation at Pier 44
The rain had turned into a freezing sleet by the time our convoy of black SUVs pulled up to Pier 44, a cavernous, dimly lit shipping warehouse on the Hudson River. Inside, rows of stacked cargo containers stretched into the shadows, smelling of salt water, diesel fuel, and damp concrete.
Marco Rossi stood near an administrative office on the second-floor gantry, a glass of scotch in his hand, laughing nervously with a tall, sharp-featured man in an expensive trench coat—Viktor, Gregor’s top lieutenant.
When Dominic walked up the metal staircase, the laughter died instantly.
Marco’s face drained of color. The glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the steel grating. "Dom... what are you doing here? I thought you were negotiating with Gregor."
"The negotiations concluded," Dominic said, his footsteps echoing heavily as he approached his younger brother. "Gregor is currently rethinking his life choices downstairs. But we have unfinished business up here."
Viktor’s hand twitched toward his coat. Matteo was faster, sliding a suppressed pistol against Viktor’s temple before he could blink.
"Don't," Matteo whispered.
"Marco," Dominic said, stopping three feet from his brother. "Is it true?"
"Is what true? Dom, you’re paranoid—"
"Stop," I interrupted, stepping out from behind Dominic.
Marco blinked, noticing my faded navy cleaning smock for the first time. "Who the hell is this? A cleaning lady?"
"She’s the person who read your financial suicide note out of a trash bin in New Jersey," Dominic said coldly. "She translates languages, Marco. Apparently, she also translates corporate treason."
Marco panicked. He looked at Viktor, then back at Dominic, his voice cracking. "They were going to kill me, Dom! My debts—the poker ring in Brooklyn—they bought my markers! I had no choice! If I didn't sign over the port logistics, they were going to feed me to the fishes!"
"You compromised the family," Dominic said. The lack of emotion in his voice was far more terrifying than screaming. "Fifty years our father built this company. Fifty years of keeping our hands clean of the filth Gregor deals in. And you sold it for a poker game."
"Dom, please! We're blood!" Marco sobbed, dropping to his knees on the wet metal grating.
Viktor sneered, speaking in rapid, guttural Georgian. “Kill him, Rossi. You’re both dead anyway. The maritime police are five minutes away with federal warrants.”
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I didn't wait for Dominic to ask.
"He says we're already dead," I translated smoothly in English, looking directly at Dominic. "He also activated a silent distress beacon in his belt buckle. Federal marshals are twenty blocks away. We have four minutes before the pier is surrounded."
