Chapter 4 - THE DOCKS OF RED HOOK
The Pier 42 shipping terminal in Red Hook smelled of salt water, diesel exhaust, and wet steel.
Night was falling over the harbor, turning the water of the East River into a black, churning sheet that mirrored the grey clouds hanging over the Manhattan skyline across the bay. Massive crane arms stood like silent iron monsters against the twilight, lowering shipping containers from a panamanian freighter onto waiting semi-trucks.
The Rolls-Royce pulled up behind a row of rusted shipping containers fifty yards from the dock edge. Two dark SUVs idling nearby turned off their headlights as we approached, their drivers stepping out into the cold drizzle, hands resting inside their coats.
I stepped out of the vehicle, buttoning my coat against the damp wind, leaving Marco inside with Lily.
Standing near the edge of the pier, surrounded by four of his personal bodyguards, was Domenico Moretti. He was wearing a long leather trench coat, a thick cigar burning between his teeth, his arms crossed over his broad chest as he watched the crew unload a shipment of imported olive oil containers—the primary front for our offshore smuggling operations.
"Vincent!" Domenico boomed, turning around with a wide, theatrical smile that didn't reach his small, dark eyes. "Look at you! Walking! The street news said you were dead on Fifty-Third Street! I was almost ready to order the flowers for St. Patrick's!"
"You always were quick to spend money on things that didn't happen, Domenico," I said, walking up to him until we were three feet apart. My guards positioned themselves cleanly, cutting off his men's sightlines.
Domenico’s smile flickered, then smoothed out into a mask of polite concern. "We were worried, cousin. A collapse in Midtown? In broad daylight? The Commission is talking. The Russians in Brooklyn are asking if the Moretti family is getting soft at the top."
"The Commission can talk all it wants," I said, my voice dropping into a dangerous, low register that made his bodyguards shift uncomfortably on their feet. "My health is my concern. The firm is operating as it always has."
"Is it?" Domenico stepped closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear. "Then why are six of our best tactical men sitting outside the cardiac unit at Columbia Presbyterian? Why did Marco transfer two million dollars from our offshore reserve in Nassau to a private medical trust this afternoon?"
He chuckled, taking a slow puff from his cigar, blowing the white smoke into the cold rain between us.
"Word travels fast in this city, Vincent. They say you found a little souvenir in Queens. A ghost from your past."
My blood went instantly cold, but my face remained an unreadable sheet of ice.
"Be very careful where you step next, Domenico," I said, my hand resting casually inside my coat pocket.
"I'm just looking out for the family, cousin," Domenico said smoothly, though a flicker of genuine fear passed through his eyes at my tone. "A boss with a weak heart is a danger to us all. A boss with an unlisted heir... that's a liability."
He took two steps past me, looking toward the dark glass of the Rolls-Royce parked near the containers. Through the tinted window, he could faintly see the small silhouette of a child sitting in the back seat, holding a silver watch against her chest.
"She’s pretty," Domenico murmured, a sick, calculating edge entering his voice. "Looks like your father. Does she know what her daddy does for a living?"
Before he could take another breath, I moved.
My left hand caught Domenico by the throat, my fingers digging into his windpipe with crushing force. Before his bodyguards could pull their weapons, three red laser dots appeared simultaneously on Domenico’s chest from the upper gantry cranes where my snipers were stationed.
Domenico’s guards froze, their hands locked over their holsters, sweat instantly breaking out on their foreheads.
I slammed Domenico back against the cold steel wall of a shipping container, forcing his head back until his feet were barely touching the wet concrete. The cigar tumbled from his mouth, sizzling as it hit a puddle.
"Listen to me, you piece of garbage," I whispered directly into his ear, my grip tightening until his face turned a dark, suffocating purple. "You mention her again, you look toward her again, or you even think her name in your sleep, and I will have Marco skin you alive on this pier and throw your remains to the crabs in the harbor."
Domenico gasped for air, his hands clutching frantically at my wrist, his eyes wide with pure, unadulterated terror. He nodded rapidly, his pride completely shattered under the weight of my fury.
"She... is... nothing... to me..." he choked out.
"She is a Moretti," I corrected him, throwing him down onto the wet asphalt at my feet, where he collapsed into a heap of shivering leather, coughing violently as he clutched his throat. "And if anything happens to her, or to her mother in that hospital, I won't just kill you. I will wipe your entire bloodline off the registry of this city."
I turned my back on him, adjusting my cuffs as I stepped toward the car.
"Clear these docks," I ordered my team without looking back. "And make sure my cousin finds his way home safely. He has a lot of thinking to do."
I opened the rear door of the Rolls-Royce and stepped inside, shutting out the wind and the salt spray.
Lily was sitting quietly on the leather seat, holding the silver watch. She looked at me, then at my right hand, which was slightly red from crushing Domenico's throat.
"Did that man make you angry?" she asked softly.
May you like
I picked up a silk handkerchief from the side console, slowly wiping my hand clean before tossing it into the small waste bin.
"No, Lily," I said, offering her a quiet, gentle smile as the heavy vehicle glided away from the dark pier. "He just reminded me of why I need to build a bigger wall around our house."
