Chapter 3 - Shadows on Court Street
The private conference room on the fourteenth floor of the Municipal Trade Building on Court Street smelled of stale espresso, expensive leather, and panic.
Frank Lawson—a heavy, red-faced man of fifty-eight with veins like purple rivers across his nose—sat at the center of the mahogany table, sweating through the collar of his tailored blue shirt. Beside him sat his corporate attorney, an anxious younger man named Miller, who had spent the last two hours reviewing an eight-page civil writ that had been delivered to their offices by a process server at eight o'clock that morning.
Opposite them sat Marco, Vincent’s underboss, flanked by two junior associates whose dark overcoats were buttoned cleanly to the throat.
"This is extortion, Marco," Frank Lawson rasped, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and terror. "My nephew was drunk! He had an argument with a waitress! A waitress! You don't seize fifty-two commercial recycling routes over a black eye in a diner!"
Marco did not touch the espresso cup sitting before him. He leaned back in his leather executive chair, resting his hands flat on the armrests, his scarred features as relaxed as if he were attending an afternoon baseball game.
"You're confused, Frank," Marco said smoothly. "Mr. Castellano didn't seize your routes. The New York Department of Consumer and Worker Protection revoked your operating permits two hours ago based on three hundred safety violations our inspectors found in your diesel maintenance logs."
"Your inspectors?!" Miller, the attorney, squeaked. "You don't run the Department of Consumer Protection!"
Marco turned his cold brown eyes toward the lawyer. "We run the city, counselor. If Mr. Castellano says a diesel truck has bad brakes, that truck does not roll past the Gowanus Canal. Sign the transfer agreement, Frank. You receive four million dollars in non-voting shares in Castellano Maritime, your pension accounts remain unencumbered, and your family keeps its summer house in the Hamptons."
"And Derek?" Frank choked out, his hands trembling over the desk blotter. "Where is my nephew?"
"Derek is on a private transport van heading south toward a residential rehabilitation facility in eastern North Carolina," Marco replied, his voice dropping into that chilling, conversational register that left no room for appeal. "He will spend the next three years learning how to sweep floors with his left hand. If his vehicle crosses the Virginia border heading north, or if he enters the borough of Brooklyn before the year twenty-twenty-nine... the next document Frank signs will be an intake form at the Green-Wood Cemetery."
Frank Lawson stared at the pen on the table.
He looked at Marco’s unblinking eyes, looked at the two associates standing by the door, and slowly reached out his shaking hand.
He signed his name on the final page: Frank Lawson — Managing Partner.
"Wise decision, Frank," Marco said, pulling the parchment toward him, blowing lightly on the wet ink before sliding it into his leather portfolio. "Mr. Castellano appreciates men who understand how to settle accounts without wasting his morning."
Marco stood up, buttoned his overcoat, and knocked twice on the conference room door.
As the door opened, an associate stepped into the room, holding an encrypted satellite phone, his expression tight with urgency.
"Marco," the associate whispered, leaning down. "A private Gulfstream registered to Tidewater Industrial Logistics just touched down at Teterboro Airport thirty minutes ago."
Marco stopped adjusting his cuffs. "Passenger manifest?"
"Two passengers," the associate replied. "Raymond Fletcher... and a private security contractor named Vance Cole, former paramilitary operative out of Virginia Beach."
May you like
A cold, razor-sharp smile touched Marco’s lips.
"They took the bait faster than the Boss expected," Marco murmured, taking the phone. "Call Shore Road. Tell Mr. Castellano that the ghost from Henrico County just bought a ticket to his own funeral."
