Chapter 8 - The Harbor Summit
The abandoned fish-processing warehouse at Pier 8 smelled of salt, rusted iron, and old seawater.
The wind off Narragansett Bay howled through the broken corrugated tin roof, sending shivers through the dozen heavily armed men standing in the shadows. In the center of the vast concrete floor stood Salvatore Gallo, a silver-haired syndicate boss from Brooklyn whose tailored Italian suit looked absurdly out of place among the rusted fish vats.
The heavy sliding doors groaned open.
Garrison walked in alone. He didn't bring Dominic. He didn't bring an army. He walked with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his black wool coat, his face carved from impenetrable granite, moving with the terrifying calm of a man walking into his own living room.
Salvatore Gallo sneered, adjusting his diamond-encrusted cufflinks.
"Brave of you to show up by yourself, Garrison," Salvatore scoffed, gesturing to the half-dozen gunmen flanking him. "Word on the street is you've gone soft. You pick up cripples off the street, you play domestic house in Blackstone Boulevard, and you let your guard down."
Garrison stopped twenty feet away. He didn't smile. He didn't blink.
"You sent a rat into my house last night, Salvatore," Garrison said, his voice terrifyingly quiet, carrying clearly across the cold concrete.
"Just checking the plumbing," Salvatore laughed, stepping forward. "A man with a disabled teacher in his house is a man with a target on his back. Hand over half your shipping logistics on Pier 4, and maybe we let your little girlfriend live to grade another spelling test."
The air in the warehouse dropped ten degrees.
Garrison didn't raise his voice. He didn't reach for a weapon. He simply pulled a heavy, encrypted satellite phone from his pocket, unlocked the screen with a single swipe, and pressed play.
Over the warehouse’s rusted intercom speakers, a clear, digital recording began to play.
It was the voice of Salvatore Gallo speaking to his captains in Brooklyn forty-eight hours ago, detailing the exact assassination plot against Garrison’s estate, complete with bank routing numbers, offshore account codes, and the names of every corrupt federal judge on the New York payroll.
Salvatore’s face drained of color in a fraction of a second. His confident smirk vanished, replaced by sheer, unadulterated panic.
"How... how did you—" Salvatore stammered, stumbling backward.
"You think because I opened my home to someone who doesn't walk, I forgot how to run a city?" Garrison stepped forward, his eyes burning with a dark, lethal fire. "My house isn't a weakness, Salvatore. It's a fortress. And the woman you threatened? She taught second grade in South Providence for six years. She knows how to spot a cheat, how to survive a wreck, and how to look a monster in the eye and say no."
Garrison pulled a heavy silver flash drive from his pocket and dropped it onto the concrete floor at Salvatore’s feet.
"That drive has copies of everything," Garrison said softly. "By morning, the federal prosecutor in Manhattan will have the rest. You have twelve hours to pack your bags, pull your crews out of Rhode Island, and never set foot in New England again. If you're still in this state by sunrise, I won't send a warning."
Salvatore stared at the flash drive like it was a live grenade. He looked up at Garrison, saw the absolute, terrifying finality in the mafia boss's eyes, and swallowed hard.
Without a single word, the New York boss turned around, motioned frantically to his panicked guards, and sprinted toward their Escalades, fleeing into the freezing Providence night like a whipped dog.
May you like
Garrison stood alone in the center of the warehouse, watching them go. Then he turned, pulled out his phone, and dialed a single number.
"Dom," Garrison said as soon as the line connected. "It's over. Pack up the cars. We're going home."
