Chapter 7 - The Battle for Pier 42
The rain at Pier 42 didn't fall; it was driven by the Atlantic wind, striking the corrugated iron walls of the warehouses with a sound like machine-gun fire.
Damian Voss stepped out of the black Lincoln before the vehicle had even come to a complete halt, his long overcoat snapping in the gale. He held no weapon in his hands—only a thick leather folder containing the deeds to the Eighth Avenue block. Behind him, three more SUVs formed a wall of dark metal against the dark waters of the slipway.
Leo Valenti was waiting near the edge of the pier, sheltered beneath the massive awning of a rusted container crane. He was fifty, thick-set, with a face like a bulldog and a gold pinky ring that glinted in the yellow light of the industrial lamps. Around him stood twelve men, all carrying short-barreled automatic weapons under their oilskin coats.
"You're late, Voss," Leo shouted over the roar of the wind. "The Queens docks are already half ash. Your father must be turning in his bed."
"My father is asleep, Leo," Damian said, his voice cutting through the storm without any effort. He stopped ten feet from the older boss, his boots clicking against the wet timber of the pier. "And the Queens docks were insured for twice their value. You didn't cost me a dollar tonight. You just made my summer tax return simpler."
Leo’s face darkened, the gold ring clicking against his cane. "You think you're clever because you went to Columbia, kid? You’re still just a Voss. Your grandfather was a longshoreman who stole copper pipe from the navy yards. Where’s the girl?"
"The girl is somewhere you will never see her," Damian said, lifting the leather folder. "You wanted the Eighth Avenue title. Here it is. Sign the release for the longshoremen's union, and you can have the block. If you don't... well, I’ve already spoken to the Port Authority Commissioner. Your leases in Newark are being reviewed at seven tomorrow morning."
Leo let out a loud, coarse laugh that turned into a cough. "You think the Commissioner can save you from twelve bullets, Damian?"
He lifted his hand to give the signal.
He never dropped it.
A sharp, high-powered crack echoed from the top of the adjacent container crane, and the soldier standing directly to Leo’s left collapsed onto the timber, a neat, dark hole appearing in the center of his forehead. Before the rest of the Valenti men could raise their weapons, three more shots rang out in rapid succession, the red laser sights of Damian’s snipers painting the wet concrete like Christmas lights.
"Silas! Move!" Damian roared, throwing himself behind a stack of steel pallets as the pier erupted into a frantic, chaotic crossfire.
Leo himself was scrambling back toward the edge of the pier, his cane forgotten, his expensive coat soaked through with river water. He reached the final piling, his hand reaching into his pocket for a compact pistol, when Damian’s boot came down hard on his wrist.
The bone snapped with a wet, distinct crack. Leo let out a high-pitched shriek, his weapon tumbling over the edge into the black, churning waters of the East River.
Damian stood over him, the rain streaming down his marble features, his gun pointed straight between the older boss’s eyes.
"Suffolk Street was your last mistake, Leo," Damian said, his voice flat, his finger tightening on the trigger. "The city doesn't have room for two families anymore. And I have a dinner date to get back to."
"Voss... please," Leo gasped, his face gray with pain and terror as he looked up at the muzzle of the gun. "We can divide the wards. Fifty-fifty. The longshoremen... you can keep them all."
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Damian didn't answer. He looked at the man who had tried to kill Maya, the man who had made his life an equation of fear for ten years. He didn't feel angry; he just felt an immense, unburdened exhaustion.
He pulled the trigger.
