Chapter 7 - The Brooklyn Waterfront
The rain over Brooklyn was bitter and cold, smelling of salt water, diesel exhaust, and wet steel.
Pier 42 was a massive, rusted shipping terminal that had belonged to the Moretti family since the 1950s. Inside the high-ceilinged warehouse, rows of shipping containers were stacked three high under humming sodium lights.
Alessandro stood near the edge of the wooden dock, wearing a long black wool trench coat, his hands tucked into his pockets. Behind him stood eight of his top men, all silently holding suppressed submachine guns beneath their dark coats.
Opposite them stood Marcus Delacroix—a thick-necked, silver-haired man in his late fifties who commanded the French-Canadian shipping cartel operating out of Montreal and Manhattan.
Delacroix had brought ten men of his own. Their dark sedans were parked in a semicircle near the warehouse entrance, engines idling, exhaust fumes drifting through the cold air.
“You’re getting old, Alessandro,” Delacroix said, his voice carrying a heavy French accent. He lit a cigar with a gold Zippo lighter, the small flame illuminating his harsh, weathered features. “Your sister-in-law disappears. Your shipping manifests get leaked to the feds. Your fiancée gets poisoned at Il Cielo. People in the city are saying the Moretti family is losing its grip.”
Alessandro didn't flinch. He didn't answer immediately. He waited until the sound of a approaching sedan echoed through the wet warehouse.
My black armored SUV pulled up behind Alessandro’s line of guards.
I stepped out of the rear seat, wearing a tailored navy wool coat and high boots. I walked calmly across the wet concrete, stopping directly beside Alessandro.
Delacroix’s eyes widened slightly when he saw me.
“Ah,” Delacroix sneered, taking a long puff from his cigar. “The famous surviving fiancée. I heard you spent three days in a coma, mademoiselle. You look remarkably pale for a woman who just signed legal documents transferring Pier 42 to my control.”
I pulled a thick white envelope from my coat pocket and held it up between two fingers.
“You mean these documents, Mr. Delacroix?” I asked, my voice ringing clearly across the echoey warehouse.
Delacroix frowned. “What is that?”
“This is a notice of eminent domain seizure issued by the Port Authority of New York three hours ago,” I said smoothly, stepping forward until I was standing half a pace ahead of Alessandro. “It turns out that three of your primary shell companies in Montreal were built on forged maritime bills of lading. I spent my three days in the hospital reviewing your corporate filings from 2021.”
Delacroix’s face darkened. “What are you talking about, woman?”
“I’m talking about $14 million in unpaid customs duties that you owed to the Federal Waterfront Commission,” I replied, a small, cold smile touching my lips. “I delivered the complete audit file to Special Agent Vance forty-five minutes ago. As of noon today, all Delacroix assets operating within the Port of New York have been frozen by federal order.”
Delacroix’s cigar dropped from his hand, landing with a soft hiss in a puddle of wet oil on the concrete.
His men shifted uncomfortably, their hands moving toward their coats, but before anyone could draw a weapon, the heavy steel doors at both ends of the warehouse slammed shut.
Overhead, on the steel catwalks forty feet above us, twenty Moretti tactical operators appeared out of the shadows, their laser sights painting bright red dots across the chests of Delacroix’s security team.
Delacroix turned slowly, staring at Alessandro with pure, unadulterated shock.
“You didn't come here to negotiate,” Delacroix whispered.
“I don't negotiate with men who backed Victoria’s little pharmacy project,” Alessandro said softly. He stepped forward, placing his arm around my waist, pulling me close against his side. “My fiancée is a very thorough accountant, Marcus. She doesn't just clear tax registries. She liquidates empires.”
Alessandro looked down at Delacroix’s men. “Leave your weapons on the crates and walk out through the service gate. If I see any of you in New York after midnight, you won't make it to the airport.”
Without a word, three of Delacroix’s men immediately unclipped their shoulder holsters, dropped their weapons onto the nearest wooden pallet, and walked quickly toward the exit. Within thirty seconds, Delacroix was standing completely alone under the buzzing sodium lights, surrounded by twenty red laser points.
May you like
Alessandro didn't shoot him. He didn't need to.
“Go back to Montreal, Marcus,” Alessandro said softly. “Tell your board that Pier 42 belongs to Clara Vance Moretti. And tell them that if anyone mentions her name again in this city, I won't send the feds. I’ll come myself.”
