Chapter 6 - The Meat Market
Pier 42 in Brooklyn was a frozen, desolate stretch of concrete jutting out into the black, oily waters of the East River. Rusted shipping containers were stacked three stories high, casting long, jagged shadows under the flickering yellow streetlamps.
Inside Warehouse B—a massive, meat-packing facility converted into an illegal weapons depot—Don Paulie "The Butcher" Scarfo sat on a wooden crate, surrounded by twenty heavily armed hitmen.
Scarfo was a massive, obese man in his late fifties, wearing a grease-stained leather coat and chewing on a toothpick. He was surrounded by crates of military-grade assault rifles, stolen goods, and duffel bags filled with illicit cash.
"He ain't coming," Scarfo sneered, spitting his toothpick onto the concrete floor. "The Wolf of the East River is soft now. I heard he’s playing daddy to a housemaid's bastard up in his fancy mansion. The old Moretti bloodline has turned to milk."
His men chuckled, lighting cigarettes and resting their submachine guns against their hips.
The massive metal rolling doors of the warehouse gave a sudden, thunderous screech as they were ripped off their iron tracks by a heavy steel winch attached to an armored construction crane outside.
The heavy steel doors slammed onto the concrete floor, sending clouds of dust and rust billowing into the freezing night air.
Through the white cloud of dust stepped Alessandro Moretti.
He walked alone. No bodyguards. No tactical squad. Just one man in a black wool overcoat, his hands buried deep in his pockets, stepping casually into a room filled with twenty armed hitmen.
Scarfo jumped off his crate, his jaw dropping in shock before settling back into a murderous grin. "Well, well. The great Alessandro Moretti. You came alone? Are you suicidal, boy?"
Alessandro stopped twenty feet from Scarfo. He looked around the warehouse, taking in the crates of weapons, the armed men, and the foul stench of raw meat and diesel fuel.
"You have five minutes to evacuate this warehouse, Paulie," Alessandro said, his voice carrying an eerie, echoic stillness that made the surrounding gunman tighten their grip on their weapons.
Scarfo burst out laughing, a loud, wheezing sound that echoed off the high corrugated tin ceiling. "Are you out of your mind?! You're surrounded by twenty of my best shooters! I own this pier! You owe me four million dollars for Bernardo’s debt!"
"Bernardo’s debts died with Bernardo," Alessandro replied coldly. "And this pier belongs to the Moretti Port Authority Trust. As of three o'clock today, I bought the land deed from the city. You are trespassing on my property."
"Shoot him!" Scarfo roared, pointing his finger violently at Alessandro. "Shoot this arrogant bastard! Dump his body in the river!"
Not a single gun fired.
Scarfo frowned, turning his head frantically to look at his men. "What the hell are you waiting for?! Shoot him!"
The twenty hitmen stood completely frozen.
Behind each gunman, emerging silently from the shadows of the shipping containers and the dark rafters above, were Alessandro’s elite silent operatives—each holding a suppressed pistol directly against the back of Scarfo’s men's skulls.
From the dark corners of the warehouse, Marco stepped forward, holding a heavy tactical shotgun racked and ready.
"You really thought Alessandro would come to Brooklyn without bringing the pack, Paulie?" Marco chuckled darkly. "You're dumber than you look."
Scarfo’s face turned the color of spoiled milk. He fell backward onto his wooden crate, his hands trembling violently as his men slowly lowered their weapons, dropping them onto the concrete floor one by one.
Alessandro walked up to Scarfo. He reached into his coat pocket.
Scarfo flinched, pulling his head back, expecting a gun.
Instead, Alessandro pulled out a small leather folder containing legal land transfers and a cashier's check for fifty thousand dollars.
"This check covers the cost of your moving vans, Paulie," Alessandro said, throwing the folder onto Scarfo’s lap. "You have until sunrise to pack your personal belongings and clear out of Brooklyn entirely. If I see your face, or the face of any of your men, anywhere in the five boroughs after 6:00 AM... I won't send my operatives. I’ll come back myself."
Scarfo stared at the check, then up at Alessandro’s dark, unyielding eyes. He knew he was looking at a man who had completely reclaimed his empire, a man who feared nothing because he had finally found something worth protecting.
"I'm leaving," Scarfo whispered, his spirit completely crushed. "We're leaving tonight."
Alessandro turned around and walked out of the warehouse into the cool night air.
As he stepped into the back seat of his waiting Bentley, Marco closed the door behind him and hopped into the front passenger seat.
"Smooth operation, Boss," Marco said, smiling. "We took the Brooklyn docks without firing a single shot."
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Alessandro didn't answer. He was looking at a small pink bakery box sitting on the leather seat beside him. He opened the lid, checking to make sure the single chocolate donut with rainbow sprinkles was intact.
"Drive faster, Marco," Alessandro ordered softly, looking out the window at the distant skyline of the city. "It’s almost eight o'clock. Emma is waiting."
