Chapter 17 - Whispers in Queens
The warehouse smelled of stagnant river water, dead fish, and diesel fuel. High sodium-vapor lamps hummed against the corrugated steel ceiling, casting long, sickly yellow shadows across five luxury black SUVs parked in a wide circle.
Around a makeshift table constructed from wooden pallets sat four men.
At the head of the table sat Sal Marcone. He was an older man, seventy-two, with a face like crumpled butcher paper and watery, venomous blue eyes. The Marcone family had ruled the Brooklyn ports for forty years until Dante Russo arrived from Sicily a decade ago, systematically carving up their operations with ruthless, clinical precision.
"He was seen," a younger man named Leo spoke, tapping a digital tablet on the pallet. "Valenti picked up a girl from a dump on Mulberry. Brought her straight to the Blackwood estate."
Marcone leaned forward, rolling an unlit cigar between tobacco-stained teeth. "A woman? Dante hasn't touched a woman since his wife caught a bullet three weeks ago. Who is she? A cousin? Someone from Palermo?"
"Nobody," Leo said, turning the tablet around. On the screen was a high-resolution surveillance photograph of Maya Bennett standing outside Bellanote Diner, wiping a table through the front glass. "Her name is Maya Bennett. Works the breakfast and lunch shift at Bellanote. No family. No mob connections. She’s a ghost."
The other men around the table exchanged confused, skeptical glances.
"Why would Dante Russo bring a hash-slinger to his inner sanctum?" Marcone growled. "The man is paranoid. He has snipers on his roof and guard dogs on his perimeter. He hasn't let his own lieutenants see the kid since the ambush."
"That's the angle, boss," Leo whispered, leaning in closer. "My guy inside Blackwood says the kid finally broke her silence last night. And this waitress was the reason. Dante put her in the girl's room alone for an hour."
Marcone’s watery eyes widened slightly. A slow, putrid grin spread across his wrinkled face, exposing crooked gold crowns.
"The kid," Marcone breathed softly. "The kid is his jugular."
"We tried to hit the car in TriBeCa," Leo said, his voice dropping into a tense whisper. "We got the mother, but the girl lived. Now Russo is hunting through our warehouses like a rabid dog. He’s already executed two of our captains in Queens. If we don't slow him down, the Commission will hand our docks to the Russians just to stop the bleeding."
Marcone tapped his heavy pinky ring against the wood. *Tap. Tap. Tap.*
"If Dante cares about this waitress," Marcone said, his voice dripping with venomous calculation, "then she is not just a hash-slinger. She is a leash."
"Do we take her?" Leo asked, his hand drifting toward the pistol beneath his armpit.
May you like
"No," Marcone snapped, slapping the table. "You don't shoot the bait before the trap is set. We watch her. We see where she goes. We see how close Dante lets her get to the bloodline. If she becomes the girl’s keeper... we won't need to fight through Blackwood’s snipers. We’ll bring Dante to us."
***
