Chapter 4 - The Confession in the Dark
The meatpacking plant smelled of iron, dried blood, and bleach. Overhead, rows of rusted metal hooks hung from steel tracks, swaying gently in the cold draft.
In the center of the concrete floor, illuminated by a single hanging lightbulb, Marco Ricci was tied to a heavy wooden chair. His face was bruised, his nose broken, his designer suit torn and filthy.
When the heavy sliding doors of the warehouse opened, Marco jerked his head up. Seeing me walk in, followed by Bruno, he began to shake violently.
"Sal! Sal, please!" he cried out, his voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls. "I swear to God, I’ll tell you everything! Just don't let that dog near me!"
Bruno didn't rush him. He walked slowly, calmly, taking a seat five feet away from Marco's chair, watching the man with cold, intelligent eyes.
I pulled up a metal crate, sat down in front of Marco, and lit a cigarette. I took a deep drag, blowing the blue smoke toward the flickering lightbulb above us.
"Speak," I said.
"It started eight months ago," Marco blabbered, words spilling out of him in a desperate torrent. "Moretti offered me fifty percent of the Queens shipping docks if I helped him secure the surrounding real estate. He said you were getting soft! He said you were turning down multi-million dollar drug deals because you didn't want narcotics in the neighborhood!"
"I don't deal poison to our own people," I said coldly. "That has been the rule since my grandfather ran this city."
"Times have changed, Sal!" Marco yelled, then immediately softened his tone when Bruno let out a low rumble. "I... I mean, I thought we were losing money! Moretti said if I couldn't convince the local owners to sell, I had to scare them. He gave me the black SUV. It was untraceable."
"Tell me about the girl," I demanded.
Marco’s head dropped, tears cutting clean streaks through the blood on his face. "I was going to Vasquez’s restaurant. I had a flask in the car. I was drunk, Sal. I was stressed out because Vasquez refused to sign the papers the day before. I was speeding down 104th... I looked down for one second to grab my phone... and then there was a thud."
He sobbed hysterically. "I panicked! I looked in the rearview mirror and saw her lying in the street. I knew if I stopped, someone would recognize me. I drove straight to the industrial garage, wiped the bumper, and hid the car. I thought... I thought no one saw me."
"Someone saw you," I said softly.
"Who?" Marco whimpered. "The street was empty!"
"God saw you," I said. "And my dog smelled you."
I stood up, flicking the cigarette butt onto the cold concrete floor. "You traded twelve years of brotherhood for Moretti's blood money. You let a child die alone in the gutter because you were worried about your career."
"Sal! Please! Give me a chance! I'll leave the country! I'll go to Sicily! You'll never see my face again!" Marco pleaded, kicking his tied legs against the chair frame.
I turned my back on him and walked toward the exit. "Tony."
Tony stepped forward from the shadows, a heavy silenced pistol in his hand. "Yes, Boss?"
"Make sure he is buried somewhere where the sun doesn't shine," I said without turning around. "And return his watches and jewelry to his wife. Tell her he died an honorable man so her children don't have to bear his shame."
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"No! Sal! Don't do this! SAL!" Marco’s scream echoed behind me, followed by the quiet, muffled thump of a firearm.
Out in the night air, Bruno stood beside me, his fur rustling in the cool wind. The weight that had been pressing down on his massive chest since we entered the funeral home seemed to lift slightly. The murderer had been brought to justice, but the damage was far from over.
