Chapter 3 - The Gathering of Wolves
The rain was still falling when the heavy steel doors of Warehouse 14 at the Port of Newark creaked open.
Inside, the vast space smelled of diesel, salt water, and rust. Sitting around a heavy mahogany table set up in the center of the concrete floor were the heads of the Five Families of the North East syndicate. Surrounding them in the shadows were thirty armed men, their leather jackets pulled tight over concealed submachine guns.
At the head of the table sat Salvatore Scalese. He was sixty years old, with slicked-back black hair, a manicured mustache, and eyes as empty and cold as a shark's. He was swirling amber liquor in a heavy crystal glass, looking at his gold watch with exaggerated impatience.
"He's not coming," Scalese declared, his voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls. "The old man has lost his mind. He sits in his mansion talking to his dead daughter's ghost while the port operations crumble. It's time to reassign the Moretti shipping lines."
"Careful, Salvatore," murmured Don Luchesi, an elderly, frail boss from Brooklyn. "Daario Moretti built this syndicate. You don't bury a man until you're sure he's dead."
"He is dead!" Scalese spat, slamming his glass onto the table. "He's been dead since the day that girl went over the guardrail in the mountains! He has no heir, no legacy, and no spine left!"
The heavy steel doors clicked.
The sound was slight, but every man in the room went completely silent.
The heavy doors swung inward, and Daario Moretti stepped out of the dark rain and into the harsh yellow glow of the hanging industrial lamps. He wore a tailored dark suit, charcoal coat, and polished boots that made a crisp, deliberate sound against the concrete floor. Behind him walked Marco and four senior lieutenants, their hands resting loosely near their jackets.
Daario didn't look like a man broken by grief.
The hollow, haunted look that had plagued his face for three months was entirely gone. In its place was an aura of absolute, terrifying clarity—the look of a dictator who had returned from the grave to inspect his executioners.
Scalese’s smile faltered, just for a fraction of a second, before he forced a slick, condescending grin back onto his face. "Daario. We thought you were taking the night off to mourn."
Daario walked slowly to the head of the table, taking his seat opposite Scalese. He didn't take off his coat. He simply leaned forward, resting his interlocked fingers on the mahogany surface.
"I am finished mourning, Salvatore," Daario said, his voice quiet, carrying an unnatural weight that made the younger soldiers in the shadows shift uncomfortably. "Now, I am taking inventory."
"Inventory?" Scalese laughed nervously. "What are you talking about? We're here to discuss the distribution of the docks. Your shipping company missed three deliveries last month."
"My shipping company missed three deliveries because someone ordered three of my captains executed in their sleep," Daario corrected smoothly. "And three months ago, my daughter’s car lost its steering column on a dry mountain road that she had driven a thousand times."
A sharp, suffocating silence dropped over the warehouse.
Don Luchesi leaned forward, his old eyes narrowing. "Daario... what are you suggesting? The police report said it was a mechanical failure—"
"The police report was written by a detective whose mortgage was paid off two weeks later by a shell company registered in Panama," Daario interrupted, his dark eyes fixing onto Scalese like iron sights. "A shell company managed by your second son, Salvatore."
Scalese’s face went instantly pale. "That's a lie! You're losing your mind, old man! You're making accusations with no proof to cover up your own incompetence!"
Scalese reached for his inner jacket pocket.
Before his fingers could even touch the leather, Marco drew a suppressed pistol and fired twice.
The bullets struck the table directly in front of Scalese's hands, splintering the mahogany and showering the rival boss with wood chips. Instantly, thirty guns were drawn throughout the warehouse, metallic clicks echoing frantically off the high walls.
Daario didn't even blink. He didn't draw a weapon. He didn't stand up.
"If any man in this room pulls a trigger," Daario said softly, looking around at the nervous faces of the hitmen in the shadows, "not a single one of you leaves this port alive. My tactical teams have surrounded this building. The exits are rigged. Try me."
Nobody fired. The air was thick with the scent of fear and cordite.
Daario looked back at Scalese, who was sweating profusely now, clutching his chest.
"I came here tonight to deliver a message," Daario said, standing up slowly and buttoning his coat. "For three months, you thought I was weak because I had nothing left to lose. You thought you had taken everything from me."
He stepped closer to Scalese, leaning down until his face was inches from the terrified boss.
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"You were wrong," Daario whispered. "I have everything to fight for now. And I am going to tear your empire down stone by stone until I find the man who put my daughter in the ground. If it was you, Salvatore... pray to God that I kill you quickly."
Daario turned his back on the armed men and walked toward the exit. Marco and his team fell into step behind him, leaving the Five Families sitting in paralyzed, terrified silence.
