Chapter 2 - Shadows on the Docks
The Eleventh Avenue warehouse smelled of salt water, diesel exhaust, and rotting timber. Rain sheeted against the corrugated tin roof, turning the cavernous interior into a drum of relentless, echoing noise.
Sal Moretti sat tied to an industrial steel chair, blood trickling from his lower lip, his expensive silk shirt stained with grease and sweat. Two of Dante’s enforcers stood quietly in the shadows behind him, their faces illuminated by the harsh yellow glow of a single overhead work light.
Dante walked slowly out of the darkness, his long wool coat trailing behind him, his boots clicking rhythmically against the concrete floor. He didn't look like a man visiting a damp, freezing warehouse at midnight; he looked like an executive inspecting a newly acquired corporate asset.
“Sal,” Dante said smoothly, stopping two feet from the chair. “You look uncomfortable.”
Moretti spat a glob of blood onto the concrete, his eyes wide and wild with a mixture of terror and wounded pride. “Dante! You’re dragging me out here over a paperwork glitch? My uncle built this syndicate with your old man! You can’t treat me like a common thief—!”
“A paperwork glitch,” Dante repeated, his tone almost conversational. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a manifest tablet, and tossed it onto Moretti’s lap. “This is the shipping ledger for the pediatric respiratory biologics that vanished from Pier Forty-Seven last Tuesday. Forty crates. Each containing twelve vials of synthetic surfactant used to keep infant lungs from collapsing.”
Moretti swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing violently. “It’s… it’s a gray-market surplus. We needed extra capital to cover port fees—!”
“You stole medicine intended for children’s hospitals,” Dante interrupted, his voice dropping into a quiet, lethal hum. He leaned down, placing his hands on the arms of the chair, bringing his face inches from Moretti’s. “You stole from kids who can’t breathe on their own, Sal. Do you have any idea how disgusting that is? Even for us?”
“People steal every day!” Moretti shrieked, panic breaking through his bravado. “You run half the illegal gambling dens and import routes on the East Coast! Don't sit there and preach to me about morality over a few boxes of medicine!”
Dante stood up slowly. He didn't blink.
“There is a difference between taxing men who choose to gamble away their money and stealing air from children who don't have a choice,” Dante said coldly. He turned to Reed, who stood near the entrance. “How much did Moretti net from fencing those crates?”
“Roughly ninety thousand,” Reed replied, consulting a notepad.
“Take every cent of his personal accounts, his vehicles, his stake in the Brooklyn import business, and liquidate it,” Dante commanded. “Leave him his clothes and a bus ticket to Buffalo. If he ever sets foot in New York again, feed him to the harbor.”
“Dante, no! Please!” Moretti howled as the enforcers stepped forward, cutting the ropes and hauling him to his feet. “I have family! I have debts—!”
“So do a lot of people, Sal,” Dante murmured as they dragged the screaming man out into the rain. “The difference is, they pay theirs honestly.”
Once the warehouse fell silent save for the drumming of the rain on the roof, Dante walked over to a stack of seized crates sitting near the loading bay. He popped the seal on the top wooden box with a crowbar, pulling aside layers of protective styrofoam.
Inside sat rows of neatly sealed, refrigerated vials bearing the exact serial numbers of the missing medical shipment.
Dante stared at the labels. Pulmonary Surfactant Suspension. Pediatric Grade.
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He thought of Maya Santos whispering to her mother in the hallway. It’s $2,800, Mama. I can’t let her release it without payment.
He reached into the crate, slid two small, vacuum-sealed boxes into the deep pocket of his wool coat, and walked out into the night.
