Chapter 7 - The Dock at Midnight
Pier 42 on the East River was a bleak, industrial landscape of towering shipping containers, rusted cranes, and cold, black water slapping against wooden pilings.
Inside Warehouse B, three high-powered halogen floodlights illuminated a central concrete area where two heavy wooden tables had been set up.
Sitting at one table was Marco Caruso, surrounded by four of his personal enforcers. Sitting across from him was Sal Moretti—the Underboss of the rival Moretti Syndicate—a fat, balding man in a fur-collared coat, smoking a thick Cuban cigar.
On the table between them rested three heavy leather duffel bags stuffed with stacks of hundred-dollar bills, along with a set of legal transfer deeds for the East River distribution docks.
"It's all there, Marco," Sal Moretti said, blowing a cloud of gray smoke toward the high rafters of the warehouse. "Three million in cash. You sign the distribution management deeds, and the Moretti family guarantees your back when you take over the Caruso family next week."
Marco smiled, picking up an expensive Montblanc pen from the table. "My brother is finished, Sal. He signed over the shipping stock to Victoria today. By Monday, he won't even have enough authority to order a pizza in Brooklyn."
"A shame about his little girl, though," Sal muttered, shaking his head with fake sympathy. "Tragic fire."
"Yeah," Marco lied smoothly, uncapping his pen. "Tragic."
Before Marco’s pen could touch the paper, a massive explosion rocked the south side of the warehouse.
The heavy steel corrugated doors were blown off their hinges by a breaching charge, crashing onto the concrete floor with a deafening BOOM that filled the air with dust, sparks, and flying debris.
"What the hell?!" Sal Moretti screamed, dropping his cigar as his bodyguards drew their weapons.
Through the clouds of dust and smoke, a heavy, rhythmic clicking of boots echoed against the concrete floor.
A tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped into the harsh halogen lights.
He was wearing a dark suit, his hands resting casually inside his trousers pockets, flanked by fifteen heavily armed Valente tactical soldiers with laser sights locked onto every guard in the room.
The dust cleared.
Marco’s Montblanc pen slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the table.
"Dominic?" Marco gasped, his face turning the color of chalk.
Sal Moretti scrambled backward out of his chair, his hands raised instinctively in the air as he recognized the man standing before him.
Dominic Caruso walked slowly toward the table. He didn't look angry. He didn't look stressed. He moved with the slow, terrifying, absolute grace of an apex predator that had cornered its prey in a small room.
"Evening, Marco," Dominic said smoothly, his deep voice echoing off the high steel walls of the warehouse. "Sal."
"Dominic... brother!" Marco stammered, stepping back from the table, his eyes flicking frantically toward the dark corners of the warehouse for an exit. "What... what are you doing here? I was... I was just negotiating a peace treaty with Sal! For the family!"
Dominic stopped two feet from the table. He looked down at the three million dollars in cash, then at the legal deeds, before raising his amber eyes to lock onto his brother's face.
"A peace treaty?" Dominic asked softly. "Is that what you call selling my empire for three million dollars while my daughter’s grave is still wet?"
Marco swallowed hard, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. "Dominic, listen to me... you haven't been yourself! You've been grieving! I was just trying to protect the territory—"
"Where is Jimmy, Marco?" Dominic interrupted flatly.
Marco froze. His breath hitched in his throat.
"Who?" Marco squeaked, his voice cracking.
"Jimmy," Dominic repeated softly. "The man you hired to guard the basement in Brooklyn. The man who was supposed to murder my eleven-year-old child once you signed these papers."
Sal Moretti’s eyes went wide. He looked at Marco with absolute disgust, taking two steps back. Even in the brutal world of the mob, harming a boss's young child was an unpardonable sin that brought swift, absolute destruction.
"Marco..." Sal whispered, backing away further. "You told me the girl died in a fire..."
"Shut up, Sal!" Marco screamed, his composure completely shattering into frantic, hysterical panic. He reached for the heavy silver revolver tucked into his waistband.
Before Marco’s hand could even touch the grip of his weapon, Dominic moved.
His hand shot forward like a striking viper. He grabbed Marco’s wrist, twisting it violently downward with a sickening CRACK of breaking bone.
Marco shrieked in agony, dropping to his knees on the concrete floor as his weapon clattered uselessly away.
Dominic didn't draw a gun. He grabbed Marco by his lapels, lifting his thirty-four-year-old brother off the floor with sheer, terrifying strength, slamming him face-first onto the wooden table directly over the legal deeds.
"She escaped, Marco," Dominic whispered into his brother's ear, his voice laced with pure, unadulterated ice. "Lily climbed wisteria vines, crawled through mud, and walked across the city on bleeding feet to save my life tonight."
Marco wept against the wooden table, his broken wrist hanging uselessly at his side. "Dominic... please! I'm your brother! Our father—"
"Our father taught us that family is sacred," Dominic growled, pulling Marco up by his hair so he was forced to look into Dominic’s amber eyes. "You broke that vow. You touched my blood."
Dominic drew his .45-caliber pistol, placing the cold steel barrel directly against Marco’s forehead.
"Dominic, please!" Marco sobbed, wetting his pants in total, blinding terror. "Don't kill me! Please!"
Dominic stared at his brother for three agonizing seconds. The warehouse fell into a silence so absolute you could hear the rain drumming against the tin roof above.
"I won't kill you tonight, Marco," Dominic said softly.
Marco let out a gasp of hope. "Thank you... thank you, brother—"
"Because death is too easy for what you did to my daughter," Dominic finished flatly.
He lowered the pistol and smashed the heavy steel butt of the gun across Marco’s jaw with brutal, terrifying force.
Marco’s teeth shattered, and he collapsed onto the concrete floor, unconscious and bleeding.
Dominic turned his cold gaze toward Sal Moretti, who stood trembling with his hands raised high in the air.
"Take your money, Sal," Dominic commanded softly, pointing to the duffel bags. "Go back to your family. Tell every Don in New York that Dominic Caruso is back. And tell them what happens to anyone who looks at my daughter again."
Sal Moretti didn't say a word. He grabbed his bags, motioned to his men, and ran out of the warehouse as fast as his legs could carry him.
May you like
Dominic looked down at his broken brother lying on the cold floor.
"Paulie," Dominic ordered flatly. "Put Marco in the trunk. Take him to the docks in Brooklyn. We're going to hold a little family trial tomorrow morning."
