Chapter 4 - The Pier 4 Basement
The air inside the basement of Pier 4 reeked of damp salt water, rusted iron, and stale blood.
High above, the heavy Atlantic waves slammed against the wooden pilings of the wharf, sending low, rhythmic thuds echoing through the concrete chamber. A single tungsten lightbulb hung from an exposed wire in the center of the ceiling, casting long, grotesque shadows across the wet floor.
Tied securely to a heavy steel chair in the center of the room was the man who had worn the stolen server’s uniform.
His jacket had been stripped away. His face was a swollen, dark ruin of purple bruises and cut skin. Viktor stood beside him, rolling up his sleeves, his knuckles stained dark crimson.
The heavy iron door at the top of the stairs creaked open.
Rafe walked down the steps with slow, measured precision. He had removed his fine wool coat, leaving him in his black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the dark, intricate tattoos that covered his skin—tattoos representing fifteen years of territorial war along the New England coast.
The hitman lifted his swollen eyes, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the concrete near Rafe’s shiny leather shoes.
"Colazo..." the man rasped through broken teeth, let out a wet, rattling laugh. "You're too late... the contract is already active... you can't protect everyone..."
Rafe didn't answer. He walked over to a metal workbench near the wall, picked up a heavy, solid steel rod—almost identical to the baton used in the restaurant—and balanced it in his right hand, testing its weight.
The hitman’s laughter died instantly. His eyes widened as he watched Rafe walk back toward him.
"Who paid you?" Rafe asked. His voice was completely flat, devoid of anger, which made it infinitely more terrifying.
"Go to hell," the hitman growled.
Rafe didn't raise his voice. He didn't swear. He simply swung the steel rod with effortless, terrifying precision, slamming it directly into the hitman’s left kneecap.
CRACK.
A shriek of agonizing, bone-deep pain ripped through the basement, echoing off the damp concrete walls until the man was panting, his head hanging low, drool and blood dripping from his chin.
"I have three minutes," Rafe said softly, resting the tip of the steel rod on the man's remaining good knee. "My sister is traumatized. A woman who saved her life is currently lying in an ICU with titanium plates in her back. And her nine-year-old son is sitting in a hospital bed praying his mother wakes up. My patience is non-existent tonight."
"It... it wasn't Moretti!" the hitman gasped, his body shaking violently with agony. "It wasn't New York!"
Rafe raised his eyebrow slightly. "Continue."
"It was local!" the man sobbed, terror completely breaking through his professional assassin facade. "It was someone inside your own network! A guy named Carlo! He said... he said if we took out the sister, you’d lose your mind and start a war with Moretti, and while you were distracted, he’d take control of the waterfront union accounts!"
Viktor stepped forward, his eyes widening in shock. "Carlo Rossi? The harbor union representative?"
Rafe stood perfectly still. Carlo Rossi was a man Rafe had pulled out of the gutters of East Boston ten years ago. A man he had given a comfortable salary, a seat at the secondary management table, and total authority over the dockworkers' pension funds.
A snake in his own house.
"Where is Carlo now?" Rafe asked coldly.
"He's... he's at his estate in Rhode Island," the hitman wheezed, gasping for air. "He’s waiting for news that the girl is dead... he has a private boat ready at Newport Marina if things go sideways..."
Rafe tossed the steel rod onto the metal workbench with a loud CLANG that made the hitman flinch violently.
"Viktor," Rafe said, walking toward the stairs.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Clean this mess up. Then call Julian. Tell him to assemble twelve men from the North End crew. We are driving to Newport."
"And Carlo?" Viktor asked, his hand drifting toward his sidearm.
May you like
Rafe stopped on the second step of the stairs, turning his head slightly. The harsh light from the single bulb caught the sharp scar along his jaw, highlighting the dark, lethal promise in his winter-grey eyes.
"Carlo thought he could use my family to start a war," Rafe whispered. "Bring him back to Boston alive. I want him to look Mave Donovan in the eyes before he dies."
