Chapter 7 - Midnight at the Rail Yards
The abandoned rail yards off Tenth Avenue and Thirty-Fourth Street were a graveyard of rusted steel, overgrown weeds, and forgotten industrial history. Stripped-down freight cars sat like giant skeletal beasts under the sickly orange glow of distant sodium vapor lamps, casting long, twisted shadows across the cracked concrete.
A heavy November wind swept in off the Hudson River, carrying the sharp scent of salt, diesel, and rotting timber.
Antonio’s black sedan pulled up behind a towering stack of rusted shipping containers, its headlights snapping off into total darkness. The engine ticked softly as it cooled.
In the back seat, Elena clutched Mia—who had finally woken up, groggy and bewildered, and was now quietly chewing on Biscuit’s ear. Elena’s face was deathly pale. She had begged, pleaded, and screamed all the way from Seventy-Second Street, but Antonio had refused to leave them behind. If Costa’s trap involved Elena, or more specifically whatever hidden hardware Daniel Rossi had left in the estate, keeping her out of his sight was a tactical liability he couldn't risk.
"Stay in the car," Antonio instructed, his hand resting on the door handle. "Lock the doors from the inside. If you hear anything that sounds like gunfire, put the car in reverse and drive straight through that chain-link fence toward the river."
"Antonio, this is insane," Damen muttered from the driver’s seat, checking the magazine of his Sig Sauer P226. "It’s a firing squad waiting in the dark. Costa doesn't want to talk; he wants to wipe us out and take over the docks."
"Let him try," Antonio said coldly. He pushed the door open and stepped out into the freezing night air, adjusting his heavy wool coat.
He walked alone across the open gravel clearing toward the skeletal frame of an old locomotive maintenance shed. The corrugated metal siding rattled violently in the river wind. Inside, a single halogen work light illuminated a circle of concrete floor where Marco was tied upright to a heavy wooden chair, his head bowed, blood crusted darkly across his forehead and jaw.
"Step into the light, Tony!"
The voice echoed off the rusted rafters, bouncing through the cavernous shed.
Antonio didn't flinch. He stopped twenty feet from the chair, his hands resting loosely at his sides, his eyes scanning the catwalks overhead where several armed figures moved stealthily through the shadows.
"You’re getting sloppy, Vincent," Antonio called out, his voice carrying effortlessly across the open space. "Using a dead man’s widow and a three-year-old child just to get my attention? That’s not mafia business. That’s desperation."
A heavy pair of boots crunched on gravel from behind a stack of oil drums. Vincent Costa stepped out into the halogen glow, a thin, cruel smile playing on his lips. He wore an expensive tailored camel-hair coat that looked entirely out of place in the filth of the rail yards, and he held a suppressed 9mm pistol loosely in his right hand, pointed toward the concrete floor.
"Desperation?" Costa laughed, shaking his head. "No, Tony. That’s called strategy. For five years, you’ve sat up in your Manhattan fortress like a monk, pretending you’re untouchable while your captains ran the streets. But you’ve got a blind spot. You left a vault unlocked."
"Daniel Rossi’s work," Antonio said, keeping his eyes locked on Costa’s.
"Smart boy, that Daniel," Costa sneered, taking another step forward. "He wired the whole house back in twenty-one. Every microphone, every tap, every security bypass. We knew about your shipments before your own men did. But the best part? He didn't just wire the study. He wired the fourth floor."
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Antonio’s jaw tightened so hard a muscle twitched. "What’s on the fourth floor, Vincent?"
Costa’s smile widened, a malicious glint shining in his eyes. "Why don't you ask the little girl? Or better yet... why don't you ask yourself what really happened the night your son died?"
