Chapter 4 - Blood and Brass
The interior of the warehouse was a cavern of concrete, rusted machinery, and hanging chains. In the center of the room, an industrial steel drum blazed with orange fire, consuming stacks of yellowed manila folders and legal ledgers. Sparks drifted upward into the shadowy rafters like dying fireflies.
Standing by the barrel was Frankie Gallo—a thickset man with a broken nose, slicked-back graying hair, and a jagged white scar running from his ear down into the collar of his silk shirt. Two armed thugs stood behind him, their hands hovering nervously over their holsters as the heavy steel door slammed against the interior wall with a deafening bang.
Frankie froze, a manila folder half-consumed by flames in his thick, scarred fingers.
He looked past Viktor, his eyes landing on me.
For a second, confusion flickered across his brutal features. He looked down at my legs, then back up at my face. The rumor mill in the underworld was supposed to be airtight; everyone from Wall Street to the docks knew Charles Whitmore was permanently welded to a wheelchair.
"Charles?" Frankie blinked, dropping the burning folder into the drum. A cloud of black ash puffed upward. "What the hell... you’re supposed to be paralyzed. They said a sniper put you in a chair for life."
"Miracles happen, Frankie," I said, my voice echoing off the damp concrete walls as I stepped fully into the light of the fire. My stride was stiff, mechanical, but every step forward was an anvil dropping on his confidence. "Usually on Sundays. But tonight, I’m making exceptions."
Frankie’s hand dropped toward his shoulder holster, his eyes darting frantically toward the side exit. "Kill him!" he roared at his enforcers. "Shoot the cripple!"
The two thugs drew their weapons, but they were amateurs playing a game designed for professionals.
Before their barrels could even clear leather, Viktor’s MP5 barked twice. The first enforcer took a 9mm round to the shoulder, spinning him around before he collapsed against a stack of wooden pallets. The second thug managed to fire once—the bullet chipping the concrete wall three feet above my head—before Viktor’s second shot caught him square in the sternum. He dropped like a sack of wet cement.
Frankie’s hand froze inches from his grip. He stared at the bodies of his men, then looked back at me as I walked up to the edge of the steel burn barrel. The heat washed over my face, smelling of scorched paper and melting plastic.
"You burned her files," I said quietly, my hand resting on the pearl-inlaid grip of the Kimber 1911 in my coat pocket.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Charles," Frankie spat, trying to salvage a veneer of tough-guy bravado, though his left eyelid was twitching uncontrollably. "Some junkie broad died in a tenement on Tenth Avenue. What’s that got to do with the Whitmore syndicate?"
I didn't answer with words. I drew the pistol, flicked the safety off with my thumb, and pressed the cold steel barrel directly against the center of Frankie Gallo’s forehead.
The color drained entirely from his face. His skin turned the shade of skim milk.
"That junkie was my sister," I whispered, the words so cold they seemed to freeze the air between us. "The woman you hunted twenty years ago, and the woman your men terrorized three days ago before her heart gave out. You didn't just burn papers, Frankie. You burned my family."
"Charles—wait—listen to me," Frankie stammered, raising his hands, palms outward, the firelight dancing in his sweat-beaded hair. "It wasn't me! It was the bosses upstairs! The commission! They said if Eleanor Whitmore ever surfaced, the ledger would come back to haunt the old families! They ordered the hit!"
"Which commission?" I asked, pressing the barrel harder against his skull until the metal bit into his skin. "Give me names, Frankie. Give me every name on that council, or I swear to God, I’ll feed you to the rats in the East River piece by piece."
Frankie’s eyes darted frantically toward Viktor, then back to me. He swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. "It was... it was the Salvatore brothers. And... and Senator Vance. He’s the one who laundered the bribe money through the zoning commission to seize the Tenth Avenue blocks. They wanted the land, Charles! They wanted the whole damn waterfront!"
Senator Robert Vance. The golden boy of New York politics, currently leading the polls for the upcoming gubernatorial race, hailed by the New York Times as a crusader for urban renewal and ethical governance.
A monster wearing an expensive tie. Exactly like my father used to be.
"Anyone else?" I asked, my finger tightening on the trigger.
"No! I swear to God, that’s all of them!" Frankie cried, tears of sheer terror finally breaking through his hardened facade, spilling down his scarred cheeks. "You got what you wanted, Charles! You’re standing! You got your legs back! Let me go—we can cut a deal, fifty-fifty on the Brooklyn docks, whatever you want—"
I didn't pull the trigger.
Instead, I lowered the barrel three inches and fired straight into his right kneecap.
The gunshot sounded like a canon blast inside the enclosed warehouse. Frankie let out a shriek that sounded more like an animal being slaughtered than a human being, collapsing sideways into the gravel and clutching his shattered leg as blood pumped rapidly between his fingers.
He rolled on the ground, howling in agony, his face pressed against the filthy concrete.
"That’s for four years in a wheelchair, Frankie," I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion as I holstered the pistol. "And that’s just the interest."
I turned away from him, looking at Viktor, who was standing by the entrance with a cigarette already lit between his lips.
"Call the federal prosecutor," I ordered, buttoning my trench coat against the damp chill. "Drop the audio recordings of this interrogation onto his desk before sunrise. Tell him Senator Vance and the Salvatore brothers are hosting a fundraiser tomorrow night at the Plaza. I want a federal indictment waiting for them by dessert."
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"And Gallo?" Viktor asked, nodding down at the writhing enforcer on the floor.
"Leave him," I said, walking toward the open sliding door where the rain was still falling over the dark, sprawling belly of the city. "Let him think about what it feels like to crawl."
