Chapter 13 - The Siege of Pier 41
The predawn fog over the East River was thick enough to swallow the towering cranes of Pier 41 whole.
Two unmarked black SUVs slid silently past the security checkpoint, their headlights extinguished, tires crunching softly against the damp asphalt of the shipping yard. Inside the lead vehicle, Dominic sat in the passenger seat, his fingers resting casually over the checkered grip of his Sig Sauer. Marco drove, his eyes scanning the perimeter through the tinted windshield.
"We have movement near Warehouse B," Marco whispered, pointing toward a row of stacked shipping containers. "Three men. Armed with standard-issue submachine guns. Morello enforcers."
"They're waiting for the morning shift to serve the seizure papers," Dominic said coldly, sliding the SUV door open. "Move in fast. I want them disarmed before they even realize the perimeter has been breached."
The takedown was swift and silent. Within forty seconds, the three enforcers were zip-tied and secured in the back of the trailing van, their weapons confiscated without a single shot being fired.
Dominic walked straight toward the main administrative office of the pier. The door was secured with a heavy digital keypad, but Marco pulled a portable decryption unit from his jacket, plugging it directly into the maintenance port.
"Give me ten seconds, boss," Marco muttered, his fingers flying across the mini-keyboard.
Beep.
The green LED flashed, and the heavy steel door clicked open.
Stepping inside, they found a clean, modern office overlooking the dark river. Sitting behind a mahogany desk, looking through a stack of legal documents by the dim glow of a desk lamp, was Salvatore Morello Jr.—the aging, arrogant heir to the opposing syndicate.
Salvatore looked up sharply, his hand dropping toward a revolver hidden in his lap.
"Don't do it, Sal," Dominic’s voice cut through the room like a razor blade.
Salvatore froze, his eyes widening as he recognized the man standing in the doorway. "Moretti... how did you—the federal injunction—"
"The injunction was signed by a judge who won't be cashing any more checks from Zurich," Dominic said smoothly, walking across the room and dropping a heavy, encrypted flash drive right in the center of Salvatore’s desk. "Arthur Vance’s accounts have been frozen, liquidated, and transferred into a municipal restoration fund for Westchester County. Your capital is gone, Sal."
Salvatore’s face turned the color of ash. He pushed his chair back, standing up slowly, his hands trembling slightly. "You can't do this. The Syndicate will—"
"The Syndicate doesn't exist anymore," Dominic interrupted, stepping close enough that Salvatore could see the absolute, unyielding void in his dark eyes. "You tried to touch my son. You tried to burn my house. And for that, I am going to give you exactly what I gave your cousins."
Dominic didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"You have twenty-four hours to pack your bags, leave the tri-state area, and never look at a shipping manifest again. If I see your face, or the face of any Morello associate, within five hundred miles of New York by tomorrow sunrise, there won't be an airstrip waiting for you."
Salvatore swallowed hard, knowing when a war was irretrievably lost. He grabbed his coat, turned around without another word, and walked out the side exit into the freezing river mist.
May you like
Marco watched him go, sliding his pistol back into his holster. "Well, boss. Looks like the docks are ours."
"They always were," Dominic replied, turning toward the window to watch the first pale sliver of dawn break over the Manhattan skyline.
