Chapter 3 - The Shadow on the Waterfront
Rain lashed against the rusted corrugated steel of Pier 42 in Red Hook. The harbor was black, the salt spray mixing with the cold downpour, churning around the heavy timber pilings that supported the abandoned shipping terminal.
Inside the dark warehouse, a single high-bay halogen lamp hung from a steel rafter, swaying gently in the draft, casting long, grotesque shadows across the oil-stained concrete.
Marcus Duca was zip-tied to a heavy iron chair beneath the light. His expensive silk suit was soaked with rain and mud, his nose bloodied, his hair plastered across his forehead. He was sobbing—a pathetic, wheezing sound that echoed through the vast, empty space.
Two of Lorenzo’s enforcers stood behind the chair like stone sentinels.
The heavy sliding door of the warehouse creaked open, admitting the sound of the storm outside.
Lorenzo stepped into the light. He wore a long dark trench coat, his boots clicking against the concrete with measured, terrifying precision. He pulled off his leather gloves, slowly folding them into his pocket as he stopped three feet from his cousin.
"Lorenzo! Please!" Marcus shrieked, twisting against the plastic ties. "It wasn't me! You have to believe me! I was set up! They threatened my family!"
"You don't have a family, Marcus," Lorenzo said softly, his voice echoing off the high steel roof. "You have a penthouse in Miami, three mistresses, and a six-million-dollar debt to the Moretti syndicate from the underground casino in Atlantic City."
Marcus froze, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide with terror.
Lorenzo reached into his coat and pulled out a stack of printouts, tossing them onto Marcus’s lap.
"These are your offshore accounts in Grand Cayman," Lorenzo said smoothly. "Three days ago, a wire transfer of two million dollars arrived from an entity called Vanguard Logistics LLC. A shell company registered in Panama, owned by Don Domenico Moretti."
Marcus began to shake uncontrollably. "Lorenzo... Domenico said you were going to destroy us! He said your new clean energy contracts and your compliance audits were going to hand the five boroughs to the federal prosecutors! He said if you died, the council would make me the head of the family!"
"And you believed him?" Lorenzo asked, a look of genuine pity passing over his sharp features. "Domenico Moretti has wanted the Red Hook shipping lanes for thirty years. He used your gambling debts to turn you into a rat. And then he hired Viktor Vance to put a bomb in my daughter's hands."
Lorenzo leaned down until his face was inches from Marcus’s bloodied cheek.
"Did you know the bomb was for Isabella, Marcus? Or did you think it was just for me?"
"I didn't know!" Marcus wept, tears cutting clean tracks through the dirt on his face. "Domenico told me it was a listening device! He said it was a wire to catch you talking about the union payoffs! I swear to God on my mother's grave, Lorenzo, I didn't know it was a bomb!"
Lorenzo stood up, his face hardening into granite.
"Your mother was a noble woman, Marcus. Do not drag her name into your pit."
Lorenzo turned to Mateo, who was standing in the shadows near the entrance.
"Where is Domenico Moretti right now?"
"He’s at his estate in Staten Island," Mateo replied, stepping forward. "He’s hosting a private victory dinner. He believes the news of your death is being suppressed by City Hall to prevent a market panic."
Lorenzo looked down at Marcus.
"Give my cousin a pen," Lorenzo said to his enforcers. "He’s going to sign over every share of his terminal stock to the Duca Foundation. And then you are going to put him on a cargo ship bound for a logging camp in northern Chile. If he ever sets foot in North America again, shoot him."
"Lorenzo! Please! Not Chile! Lorenzo!" Marcus screamed as Lorenzo turned his back and walked toward the door.
Outside, the rain was coming down harder. Lorenzo pulled his collar up against the cold wind, looking across the dark water toward the glittering, distant lights of the Manhattan skyline.
"Mateo," Lorenzo said as they climbed into the back of the armored sedan.
May you like
"Yes, boss?"
"Call the family council. Tell every caporegime in New York that the Duca family is going to war tonight. And tell them Domenico Moretti will not live to see the sunrise."
