Chapter 4 - The Shadow of Valenti
The warehouse on the Brooklyn waterfront smelled of salt, rotted wood, and the bitter tang of industrial rust. Outside, the gray waters of the East River lapped against the pilings with a rhythmic, heavy slap.
Damian Voss stood in the center of the concrete floor, his charcoal coat draped over a wooden crate behind him. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing the heavy, functional muscle of his forearms and the white medical tape wrapped tight around his lower ribs.
A man was tied to a steel folding chair under a single, bare halogen bulb. It was Leo Valenti’s primary distributor for the lower wards—a man named Goren who usually spent his days in tailored linen suits at the track. Right now, his suit was torn, his nose was broken, and his breath came in ragged, wet wheezes.
"I’m going to ask you once more, Goren," Damian said, his voice smooth, almost conversational. "Who gave the order for Suffolk Street? My perimeter was secure. No one knew I was meeting the longshoremen except my inner circle."
Goren spat blood onto the concrete, his head rolling back as he let out a wet, rattling laugh. "You think you own this city, Voss? Your father is old. He’s sitting in that house in Westchester waiting to die, and you’re trying to run the docks with lawyers and spreadsheets. Leo’s got the whole union in his pocket. Suffolk Street was just the beginning. You won't make it to the summer."
Damian didn't look angry. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his hand reaching out to grip Goren’s chin with a force that made the man’s teeth click together.
"The longshoremen belong to me because I pay their pensions," Damian whispered, his eyes narrowing into two slits of black ice. "Leo belongs to the city because he pays the judges. But the judges don't work when the streets are on fire, Goren. Now tell me about the girl."
Goren’s eyes widened a fraction. "The diner girl? The one who found you? Leo’s already got people in her building. He knows she's your weak link, Voss. You never protected a civilian before. It makes you soft."
Damian didn't answer with words. He turned his back on the chair, picking up his charcoal coat from the crate. "Marcus," he said to the shadow standing near the doorway.
"Yes, sir?"
"Clean this up," Damian ordered, sliding his arms into the coat sleeves. "And move the tactical detail to Eighth Avenue. If a single Valenti soldier enters that diner, I don't want them arrested. I want them buried."
"And Miss Ellison, sir?" Marcus asked, his silver hair catching the sharp glare of the halogen light. "She’s stubborn. She won't leave the apartment willingly."
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"Then don't ask her," Damian said, his jaw setting into a hard, rigid line. "Bring her to the townhouse on 64th. If she screams, let her scream. But keep her alive."
As Damian stepped out into the cold Brooklyn night, the rain began to fall again, slicking the cobblestones with a black, oily sheen. He could still feel the phantom sensation of Maya’s fingers pressing into his side in that alley—the raw, uncalculated humanity of a woman who had nothing to lose but her dinner, and yet gave it to a monster anyway. He had spent his whole life surrounded by people who wanted to take from him. Maya was the first person who had ever given him something without asking for the price first. And in his world, that made her more valuable than all the gold in the Federal Reserve.
