Chapter 5 - The Queens Transaction
The service bays of Marcone Exotic Motors in Queens were spotless, lined with polished gray epoxy floors, chrome tool chests, and six-figure sports cars lifted high on hydraulic jacks. The smell of high-performance exhaust and premium leather filled the air—a stark contrast to the damp laundry room at Lenox Hill, but the business being conducted here carried the exact same scent of blood.
Sal Marcone stood near the open hood of a matte-black Ferrari, a gold watch gleaming on his wrist as he argued with a mechanic. He was thirty-two years old, the eldest son of the Marcone empire, a man who had inherited his father’s cruelty but none of his old-school intelligence. He thought the name made him bulletproof.
The mechanical garage doors behind him suddenly began to descend, their heavy steel panels shutting out the afternoon light with a loud, rhythmic clatter.
Sal spun around, his hand instinctively reaching toward the waistband of his tailored trousers. "What the hell? Who’s touching the console?"
The four guards standing near the parts counter moved forward, their jackets pulling back to reveal their weapons—until the side doors to the service bay blew inward.
Vincent Kane led the entry, flanked by six Moretti tactical operators carrying suppressed automatic weapons. They didn't fire a single shot. The sheer, overwhelming geometry of the entry force had the four Marcone guards pinned against the tool racks before they could even clear leather.
"Hands on the lift bars! Right now!" Vincent roared, his weapon leveled directly at the head guard’s forehead. "Drop the iron or you stay in the grease permanently!"
The weapons clattered against the epoxy floor.
I walked through the center path, my long black overcoat open, my hands tucked into my pockets as I stopped five feet from Sal Marcone. The young man’s face had gone from an arrogant flush of anger to a pale, sweating mask of sudden realization.
"Gabriel," Sal said, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to maintain his posture. "What is this? You’re breaching the treaty. My father and you had a seat at Le Jardin on Tuesday night. The Brooklyn borders are settled."
"The Brooklyn borders were settled until your team walked into Room 412 at Lenox Hill, Sal," I said, my voice dropping into that quiet, terrifying frequency that made the mechanics in the back corner drop their tools. "You sent a chemical paralytic into a pediatric isolation unit to clear my six-year-old boy. You sent two operators with tactical knives to finish the line."
"I don't know what you're talking about!" Sal shouted, his eyes darting toward the security cameras in the ceiling—cameras that he didn't know Marcus had already looped into a dead signal ten minutes ago. "That wasn't us! We don't touch kids, Gabriel! You know the old man’s rules!"
"The old man’s rules don't apply when you’re trying to clear your own sports betting ledger out of the Delaware shell, Sal," I said, taking a step closer, my hand coming out of my pocket to reveal the physical logbook of Tomas Cruz’s communication history. "Your father doesn't know you did this, does he? You thought if you cleared my son, the Moretti family would panic-sell the shipping terminal shares to cover the security deficit, and you’d look like a genius to the commission."
Sal’s breathing grew shallow, his gold watch rattling against the fender of the Ferrari as his hand began to shake. "Gabriel... look, we can talk about this. The shares... we can do a secondary assignment. My father will sign the waiver for the docks. Just let my men step back."
"Your men are leaving, Sal," I said, gesturing to Vincent.
Within sixty seconds, the four guards and the mechanics were marched out through the rear fire exit, their hands zip-tied, their weapons secured in the trunk of Vincent’s vehicle. The service bay was left entirely empty, save for myself, Sal, and the black Ferrari that looked like a coffin with wheels.
"What are you going to do?" Sal whispered, his knees buckling slightly as he backed away until his spine hit the cold metal of the car lift frame.
"I’m going to give you a choice, Sal," I said, pulling my Glock from my shoulder holster and placing it flat on the hood of the Ferrari between us. "You can take that weapon, load the single round I left in the chamber, and you can try to walk out of this garage through me. Or you can call your father right now, on that private satellite line you keep in your desk, and you can tell him exactly why the Marcone family is about to lose forty percent of its territory in Long Island City by five o'clock today."
Sal stared at the gun, then at my face. He looked for the hesitation, the calculated compromise of a businessman who wanted to preserve the peace. But all he found was the cold, lethal certainty of a father who had watched his son choke on a hospital bed.
He slowly reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and hit the speed-dial for Donato Marcone.
"Dad?" Sal wept into the receiver, his eyes never leaving my face. "It’s me. We... we have a problem at the Queens dealership. Gabriel is here. And Dad... I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry."
I reached out, took the phone from his trembling fingers, and placed it to my ear.
"Donato," I said quietly into the line. "Your son traded my boy’s life for a betting ledger. By tomorrow morning, my crews take the Long Island terminals and the warehouse grids on the East River. If I see a single Marcone badge within three blocks of a Moretti property, I won't send Vincent. I’ll come myself. And I’ll bring the cleaning crew."
May you like
I hung up the phone without waiting for the old man’s reply, dropped it onto the epoxy floor, and crushed it beneath the heel of my boot.
"Get out of my city, Sal," I said, turning my back on him as I walked toward the descending garage doors. "If you’re still in the state by midnight, the feds will be the least of your concerns."
