Chapter 7 - Pier 42
Midnight in the Brooklyn Navy Yard was a landscape of rust, salt spray, and shadows.
Pier 42 stretched three hundred yards into the black, churning waters of the East River. Cranes stood like skeletal giants against the backdrop of the Manhattan skyline across the water. The sleet had stopped, replaced by a freezing sea mist that clung to the asphalt like grease.
A single spotlight illuminated the center of the pier, where three black SUVs were parked in a semi-circle.
Matteo Bertolli stood leaning against the hood of the center vehicle, wearing a shearling coat, twirling an unlit cigar between his fingers. Ten armed men stood around him, their submachine guns half-concealed beneath long coats.
Through the mist, headlights cut through the gloom.
A single black sedan approached down the long, narrow pier. It stopped thirty feet away from the semi-circle of SUVs.
The engine died.
The door opened, and Vincent Moretti stepped out into the freezing wind.
He was alone.
He wore a tailored charcoal wool coat over a dark suit, his hands resting casually at his sides. He carried a single black leather portfolio beneath his left arm. He didn't have his guards. He didn't have Anthony.
Matteo grinned, removing the cigar from his lips. “Look at this. The King of Fifth Avenue, taking a midnight stroll on my docks.”
“They aren't your docks yet, Matteo,” Vincent said, his voice carrying clearly over the slap of waves against the pilings.
Matteo chuckled, though his eyes remained sharp, darting behind Vincent’s car to check for backup. “You brought the papers?”
Vincent raised the leather portfolio. “The full legal transfer of the Atlantic Basin terminal, signed by myself and notarized by the Moretti Trust board at five o’clock. Alongside the commercial leases for the three dry docks in Red Hook.”
Matteo’s men exchanged glances, their eyes wide with greed. Even among hardened killers, the sheer magnitude of the prize was staggering.
“And what do you want for this magnificent gift, Vincent?” Matteo asked mockingly. “A hug? An apology?”
“The bounty on Clare’s family is canceled immediately,” Vincent said, his tone flat, businesslike, devoid of fear. “You state before the Five Families’ council at dawn that our territorial dispute is settled. And you swear on your father’s grave that you, your men, and your associates will never speak her name again.”
Matteo stared at Vincent for five long seconds. Then, slowly, he began to laugh.
It started as a chuckle and grew into a booming, derisive roar that echoed off the shipping containers.
“You really love her, don’t you?” Matteo sneered, stepping away from the SUV. “The ruthless Vincent Moretti. The man who drowned my cousin in the Gowanus Canal. You’re trading an empire worth four hundred million dollars... for a woman who walked out on you at a charity dinner.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened, but he didn't move. “The papers are here, Matteo. Take them, or I burn them right now and we spend the next six months burying our men.”
Matteo stopped laughing. His face hardened into a mask of pure malice.
“You see, Vincent, that’s where you miscalculated,” Matteo said softly. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers.
From the back of the third SUV, the door opened.
A henchman stepped out, dragging a woman forward, her hands bound behind her back, a black cloth bag over her head.
Vincent’s blood froze in his veins.
His entire body locked up, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp, agonized gasp. “Clare.”
The henchman ripped the bag from her head.
Clare blinked against the harsh glare of the spotlight. Her hair was wild, her lip split, but her eyes were wide with terrified recognition as they locked onto Vincent.
“Vincent, don't!” she cried out, her voice raw. “It’s a trap! He had men waiting at the highway exit!”
“Shut up!” the guard barked, yanking her hair back.
Vincent took half a step forward, his hand dropping toward his waist, but ten gun barrels were instantly raised, aimed directly at his chest.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Matteo tutted, shaking his head. “Don't be impetuous, Don Moretti. You drop your weapon right now, or my associate puts a hollow-point through your lovely wife’s knee.”
Vincent looked at Clare. He saw the blood on her lip. He saw the fear in her eyes—not for herself, but for him.
Slowly, carefully, Vincent reached beneath his coat with two fingers. He pulled the Sig Sauer from his belt and tossed it onto the wet concrete. It skidded across the asphalt, coming to rest at Matteo’s feet.
“Let her go, Matteo,” Vincent said, his voice trembling with a desperation he had never known in his thirty-five years of life. “You have the ports. You have me unarmed. Let her get in the car and drive away.”
Matteo kicked Vincent’s gun into the dark river below.
“You really don't get it, do you, Vincent?” Matteo said, his voice dripping with venom. “My father didn't just lose the ports to yours twelve years ago. He lost his dignity. He died in a federal prison cell because the Moretti family took everything from us.”
Matteo pulled a chrome-plated revolver from his coat and pointed it directly at Clare’s forehead.
May you like
“The ports were always going to be mine,” Matteo whispered. “Now, I’m going to make you watch what it feels like to lose the only thing you can't buy back.”
***
