Chapter 2 - The War Room at Pier 42
By eight o’clock that evening, a torrential downpour swept over Manhattan, turning the asphalt streets into shimmering black mirrors reflecting the neon lights of the city.
Inside the cavernous, rusting interior of Pier 42—an abandoned shipping warehouse projecting out into the dark, churning waters of the East River—the air smelled of saltwater, diesel fuel, and fear.
Marco Ricci sat tied to a heavy iron chair in the center of the concrete floor beneath a single overhead halogen lamp. His face was bruised, his nose bleeding from a short struggle when he tried to break free during transport.
Standing in the shadows surrounding the light were twenty-five of my most loyal soldiers, all dressed in black raincoats, their weapons drawn and checked. Bruno sat directly at my left knee, his yellow eyes fixed on Marco like a predator watching a dying animal.
I sat in a leather armchair opposite Marco, holding a glass of scotch in one hand and a thick manila folder in the other.
"Tony," I called out into the gloom.
Tony stepped forward, holding a digital tablet. "We ran the street cameras near the restaurant, Boss. Marco’s story checks out regarding the vehicle. A black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows and fake dealer plates sped away from the alley at six-fourteen PM three days ago. The plates belong to a front company owned by Jimmy 'The Blade' Moretti."
"And the docks?"
"We raided Container Yard 7 twenty minutes ago," Tony continued grimly. "We found ten unmarked shipping crates containing military-grade explosives and automatic rifles, all stamped with the Moretti family mark. Marco was helping them stage an armory right under our noses."
I set my glass of scotch down on a wooden crate. I looked at Marco, who was shivering violently despite the summer heat.
"Twelve years, Marco," I said softly, shaking my head. "I gave you a penthouse in Manhattan. I gave you twenty percent of the legal gaming operations in Atlantic City. I made your son the godfather of my own nephew. Was it ever enough?"
"It’s never enough in this life, Vittorio," Marco spat, a sudden, bitter courage taking over as he realized he was not leaving this room alive. "You held us back! You refused to deal in hard drugs! You refused to take the Moretti alliance! You wanted us to be gentlemen, businessmen... but we’re monsters, Vittorio! We’re killers! Don Moretti offered me a chance to be a king instead of an underboss’s lapdog!"
Bruno let out a vicious, gut-wrenching growl, stepping forward until his snout was inches from Marco’s face. Marco flinched backward, his breath hitching in his throat.
"You call me a lapdog?" I asked calmly, rising from my chair. "My dog has more honor in his smallest paw than you have in your entire body. Bruno protects the innocent. You trade seven-year-old girls to rat-faced cowards who run them down in the street."
I pulled my heavy matte-black custom Kimber .45 pistol from my shoulder holster. The metallic click of the slide being racked echoed through the massive warehouse like thunder.
"Vittorio... wait!" Marco panicked, his brave facade crumbling back into terror. "I can help you! I know Moretti’s safehouses! I know where Jimmy 'The Blade' sleeps! I can set up a meeting—I can lure them into an ambush for you!"
"I don't need a traitor to hunt my enemies, Marco," I said, pointing the barrel straight between his eyes. "I have my own ways."
"Please! Don Vittorio! For my family!"
"Your family will be taken care of," I said coldly. "Your wife will keep the house in Long Island. Your son’s college tuition will be paid in full by my foundation. They will never know you were a rat. They will be told you died of a sudden heart attack. That is the final mercy I offer you for the twelve years you served me before you lost your soul."
"No! Vittorio—"
BANG.
The gunshot echoed through the warehouse, swallowed up by the sound of the rain beating against the metal roof. Marco’s head snapped back, and then his body went completely limply against the iron chair.
I lowered the weapon, engaging the safety catch, and handed it to Tony.
"Clean this place up," I ordered. "And tell the captains to gather at the estate by midnight. We are going to war with the Moretti family tonight."
As I turned to walk toward the exit, Bruno didn't follow me immediately. He walked up to the iron chair, sniffed the boots of the dead man once, and let out a quiet, dismissive snort before turning his back on Marco forever.
May you like
Bruno trotted to my side, nudging his warm nose against my hand.
"Good boy, Brun," I whispered, opening the heavy metal door to step out into the pouring rain. "Now we hunt the man who drove the car."
