Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Brooklyn
The Brooklyn Navy Yard was shrouded in a heavy river fog.
At midnight, three sleek black armored vehicles pulled up near Warehouse 7. The rusty iron doors creaked open as Vincent Romano stepped out, flanked by ten heavily armed mercenaries carrying assault rifles.
Across the tarmac, two dark sedans arrived. Don Vance Moretti—the ruthless leader of the New Jersey syndicate—stepped out carrying two heavy aluminum briefcases.
"Romano," Moretti sneered, tossing a cigar onto the wet ground. "I must admit, I didn't think you had the guts to pull it off. Is Lorenzo really dead?"
Vincent grinned, adjusting the gold cufflinks he had stolen from Lorenzo’s private desk. "Lorenzo DeLuca is worm food. His body is at the bottom of the ocean, and his empire is mine. Do you have the money?"
Moretti set the briefcases on the hood of his car and popped the latches, revealing stacks of hundred-dollar bills. "Fifty million. Now hand over the shipping deeds to Dock 14."
Vincent pulled a leather folder from his jacket. "Pleasure doing business with—"
BANG!
A single sniper shot rang out through the fog.
The light pole directly above Vincent’s head shattered into a shower of sparks, plunging the warehouse entrance into semi-darkness.
"Ambush!" Moretti screamed, ducking behind his car. "You set me up, Romano!"
"It's not me!" Vincent yelled in panic, pulling his pistol. "Guard the perimeter!"
Before the mercenaries could raise their weapons, smoke grenades rained down from the upper rafters of Warehouse 7, filling the yard with thick, impenetrable white smoke.
Cries of confusion and gunfire erupted through the fog. One by one, Vincent’s mercenaries were knocked unconscious by swift, invisible strikes. Anthony Graves moved like a shadow, disarming men before they even realized where the attack was coming from.
Vincent fell backward onto the wet asphalt, scrambling toward his car in pure terror.
Through the swirling white smoke, a towering figure emerged slowly.
He wore a dark trench coat. His white shirt was pristine, and in his right hand, he held a heavy steel pistol.
The fog parted just enough for the yellow streetlight to illuminate his face.
Vincent’s breath hitched. His eyes bulged out of his head as if he were staring at an ancient demon risen from hell.
"L-Lorenzo?!" Vincent gasped, his voice cracking into a pathetic shriek. "You... you're dead! I shot you! I shot you in the chest!"
Lorenzo walked forward with slow, unhurried steps. Every thump of his boots on the asphalt sounded like a funeral bell.
"You shot my father's watch, Vincent," Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly low frequency. "You always were a terrible shot."
Vincent scrambled backward on his hands and knees, pointing his gun with trembling hands. "Stay back! Stay away from me!"
Lorenzo didn't even flinch. He walked straight toward the barrel of Vincent’s gun.
"Shoot me again, Vincent," Lorenzo challenged, his eyes burning with lethal authority. "Look me in the eye and do it."
Vincent’s finger shook on the trigger, but pure terror paralyzed his muscles. He knew Lorenzo’s reputation. He knew that even wounded, Lorenzo could snap his neck before the bullet cleared the chamber.
Suddenly, engine roars shattered the silence.
A secondary getaway car driven by one of Moretti’s surviving men sped out from behind the warehouse, swerving violently toward Lorenzo.
Marcus Bell fired three shots into the car’s tires, forcing the vehicle to crash into a row of metal shipping containers.
In the chaos, Vincent threw a smoke capsule at Lorenzo’s feet, scrambled into the back of an armored SUV, and slammed the door.
"Drive! Drive!" Vincent screamed at his driver.
The SUV tore out of the Navy Yard, tires squealing against the damp pavement, disappearing into the Brooklyn night.
Anthony ran over, raising his rifle, but Lorenzo put a hand on his shoulder.
"Let him run," Lorenzo said calmly.
"Boss?" Anthony asked in disbelief. "He was right there! We could have ended this!"
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Lorenzo looked down at the aluminum briefcases left behind on the hood of Moretti’s car.
"He ran back to the mansion," Lorenzo said, a cold smile touching his lips. "He’s terrified now. He’s going to gather every bribe, every stolen document, and every loyal guard he has left. He will trap himself in my house. And that is where we will finish him."
