Chapter 8 - The Shadow on the Dock
The air on Pier 42 tasted of salt, diesel fuel, and freezing river water.
Anthony Moretti stood under the pale yellow glow of an overhead halogen lamp mounted on a shipping container. He was fifty years old, short, thick-chested, wearing a heavy leather coat with a mink collar and two large gold rings on his right hand. Beside him stood four broad-shouldered men in dark coats, their hands buried deep in their pockets.
Standing three feet away from Moretti was Paulie Rossi—Dominic’s chief financial officer. Paulie was sixty, balding, sweating heavily despite the freezing cold, his face as pale as skim milk.
“Where is Isabella?” Moretti demanded, stepping forward, his heavy voice cutting through the sound of lapping water against the pier pillars. “She was supposed to bring the secondary access codes herself, Paulie.”
Paulie wiped his wet forehead with a shaking hand. “She… she had a security conflict in Manhattan, Anthony. Dominic was watching the main estate…”
“Dominic is an old fool who doesn't see what’s happening under his own nose,” Moretti sneered, reaching into his coat and pulling out a silver cigar case. “He thinks he still owns this city. In six months, my family will control every container shipping route from Newark to Boston.”
“Is that so, Anthony?” a voice spoke from the fog behind the shipping containers.
Moretti froze, his silver cigar case hovering mid-air.
From the dark corridor between two stacked blue shipping containers, Dominic stepped into the circle of yellow light. He walked slowly, his heavy trench coat open, his hands relaxed at his sides.
Behind him came Vincent, four heavily armed Salvatore enforcers carrying tactical rifles, and Elena.
Moretti’s four bodyguards instantly reached for their weapons, but Vincent’s team raised their rifles with mechanical speed, red laser dots appearing instantly on the chests of Moretti’s men.
“Nobody move,” Vincent ordered, his voice like grinding stones. “Put your hands where we can see them, or this pier gets painted red.”
Moretti’s men froze, their hands locked inside their coats, eyes wide as they looked at the red laser dots dancing across their dark jackets.
Moretti slowly lowered his cigar case, his sneer evaporating into a dark, ugly mask of tension.
“Dominic,” Moretti said, trying to force a calm, amused tone into his voice. “What is this? A surprise party?”
“I don't throw parties for dogs, Anthony,” Dominic said softly, stopping six feet away from him.
Dominic turned his head slightly, gesturing toward Elena, who stepped forward into the yellow halogen light.
Moretti frowned, looking at Elena’s sharp, elegant features, her clean charcoal coat, and her unblinking dark eyes.
“Who the hell is she?” Moretti asked. “Another one of your high-priced corporate lawyers?”
“My name is Elena Vance, Mr. Moretti,” Elena spoke, her voice clear, articulate, and completely unbothered by the armed men standing around them. “Six years ago, you assisted Isabella Salvatore in laundering three million euros through a secondary credit agency in Jersey City. The agency was called Apex Financial Services.”
Moretti’s jaw tightened. The blood drained slightly from his red, fleshy ears.
“I don't know what you’re talking about,” Moretti growled.
“You do know,” Elena continued smoothly, opening her small leather briefcase and pulling out a single sheet of paper. “Because on June fourteenth of that year, you personally signed the off-market equity release form that transferred my father’s stolen money into your private real estate developments in Atlantic City.”
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Elena looked up from the paper, her eyes locking onto Moretti with absolute, icy precision.
“You didn't just help Isabella steal my family’s estate, Anthony,” Elena said. “You used my father’s money to buy the very port assets you’re using tonight to challenge Dominic Salvatore.”
