Chapter 9 - Blood on Pier 42
The rain began to fall again around nine o'clock, turning the asphalt of Pier 42 into a slick, black mirror reflecting the amber glow of the overhead sodium lamps.
The old fish warehouse at the end of the pier was dark except for a single halogen work light rigged over the central loading bay. Inside, the air smelled of salt water, rotting ice, and old diesel fuel. Around a battered wooden packing crate in the center of the room, four men stood waiting: Carmine Rossi, Vincent Moretti, Sal DeLuca, and Donato Genovese—the ruthless, silver-haired boss of the Manhattan family, who had spent thirty years trying to push the D’Angelos out of Brooklyn.
"He won't show," Carmine said, spitting a toothpick onto the concrete floor as he paced back and forth, his heavy gold chain swinging against his chest. "The boy's gone soft, Donato. Ever since he found the brat in that Queens cellar, he’s been thinking like a suburban father instead of a Don. He’s probably sitting in the library right now reading bedtime stories."
"He'll show," Donato Genovese said smoothly, swirling a glass of cheap scotch as he leaned against a stack of empty plastic crates. "A man who just took his mother's empire away with one hand isn't going to let four capos sell out his docks without a fight. He has to prove he's still the Butcher of Red Hook."
"And if he does show?" Vincent Moretti asked nervously, his fingers twitching toward his pocket. "Savage has twenty men stationed outside the perimeter. If we start a war tonight, the streets of Brooklyn will run red by morning."
"There won't be a war," a voice echoed from the shadows near the sliding metal doors.
The four men spun around.
Roman stepped out from behind a stack of rusted refrigeration units. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket; he wore a heavy black tactical sweater, his sleeves rolled up, the Sig Sauer held loosely in his right hand, pointed straight down at the concrete. Behind him, stepping silently out of the mist like ghosts, came Savage and ten men in full tactical gear, their submachine guns raised and locked on the center of the room.
"Roman," Carmine Rossi said, his face draining of color as he stopped pacing. He forced a heavy, greasy smile onto his lips. "Good. You got our message. We were just discussing how to handle the transition of the Hunts Point accounts now that the old woman is out of the picture."
"You were discussing how to carve up the carcass before the animal was even dead, Carmine," Roman said, walking slowly toward them, his boots echoing off the metal walls. He stopped ten feet away, his slate-grey eyes sweeping over the group until they landed on Donato Genovese.
"Donato," Roman nodded coldly. "I didn't invite you to the family dinner."
"Helena extended the invitation on your behalf, Roman," Genovese said, not bothering to raise his voice or reach for the snub-nosed revolver tucked into his belt. "She realized months ago that your little domestic detour was going to ruin the syndicate. A Don who cares more about a bastard child than shipping lanes is a liability to everyone in this city."
"My mother is currently eating boiled fish in a monastery in Calabria," Roman said. "You should have checked her references before you wired the retainer to her shell account."
Carmine Rossi’s eyes darted toward the exit, but Savage’s men had already sealed the metal sliding doors behind them. There was no way out.
"Roman, listen to me," Carmine stammered, taking a half-step forward, his hands raised palms-up in a gesture of frantic conciliation. "The Genovese offered us a twenty-point bump on the meat distribution contracts. It wasn't about you—it was business. Just business!"
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Roman raised the Sig Sauer. The metal click of the hammer cocking back sounded like a thunderclap in the cavernous warehouse.
"You're right, Carmine," Roman said softly. "It is business."
