Chapter 6 - Fire on Pier 4
The storm raged over Boston Harbor, churning the sea into jagged black waves that slammed against the massive wooden pilings of Pier 4. Rain lashed down in blinding sheets, blurring the red and green navigational lights of the distant cargo ships.
Inside Warehouse 12—a massive steel structure that had stored the Santangelo family's contraband for fifty years—the air smelled of saltwater, diesel fuel, and cordite.
A dozens men in heavy dark coats stood near a row of shipping containers. Among them was Frank Santangelo, his umbrella dripping wet as he stood beside Victor Moretti—a fat, ruthless man in his late fifties with a scarred face and cold, greedy eyes.
"You're sure Vincent doesn't suspect?" Moretti demanded, his gravelly voice barely carrying over the sound of the storm battering the corrugated metal roof.
"He's distracted!" Frank sneered, pulling his coat tighter around his neck. "The old man lost his mind the second he saw that brat. He's upstairs playing grandfather while we take his primary revenue source. Once you control Pier 4, the Capos will realize Vincent has lost his grip. They'll vote me in as Don by tomorrow night, and you get thirty percent of the shipping routes just like we agreed."
Moretti spat onto the concrete floor. "And the kid? And the waitress?"
Frank’s face twisted into an ugly, ruthless scowl. "They disappear. A tragic house fire at the estate, or a drowning in the harbor. I don't care. Once Vincent is dead, no one will ask questions about an illegitimate kid."
"Is that so, Frank?"
A voice echoed from the dark shadows near the high rafters of the warehouse.
It was not a loud voice, but it carried a weight that froze every man in the room.
Frank and Moretti whipped around, their handguns rising instinctively toward the darkness near the eastern loading doors.
Out of the shadow of a forty-foot shipping container stepped Vincent Santangelo.
He wore no umbrella, no raincoat. His dark shirt was soaked through with rainwater, clinging to his broad shoulders. In his right hand, he held his heavy blue-steel revolver, pointed casually at the concrete floor.
Behind him, emerging silently from the shadows on all sides, were twenty men armed with automatic rifles—Vincent’s personal vanguard, every one of them loyal to the old Don.
"Vincent!" Frank stumbled backward, his face turning the color of ash. "How... how did you..."
"Did you really think I didn't know about Victor Moretti, Frank?" Vincent walked forward slowly, his leather shoes clicking sharply against the wet concrete. "Did you really think I wouldn't check the financial records from the night my son died three years ago?"
Frank’s breath hitched. "Vincent, listen to me—"
"I looked at the bank accounts, Frank," Vincent said, his tone terrifyingly soft as he stopped ten feet away. "Three years ago, a paper company registered in the Cayman Islands transferred two hundred thousand dollars to the hit-and-run driver who struck Anthony's car. That paper company was owned by Victor Moretti."
Vincent turned his gaze to Moretti, whose eyes were wide with sudden, suffocating panic.
"And the money that funded that Cayman account," Vincent continued, turning back to Frank, "came directly from your private slush fund, brother."
The warehouse fell into dead silence, save for the drumbeat of rain on the roof.
Frank shrank back, his hands shaking violently as he raised his gun toward Vincent. "He was going to ruin everything! Anthony was weak! He was going to turn his back on the family, leave us open to the federal prosecutors, give up the empire we built! I did what had to be done for the family!"
"You killed my son," Vincent said, a tear cutting through the rainwater on his cheek. "You killed my boy so you could sit on a chair made of dirt and blood."
"Vincent, please!" Frank cried out, dropping to his knees, his gun clattering onto the concrete floor as he raised his hands in desperate plea. "I'm your brother! We share the same blood!"
"Anthony was my blood," Vincent whispered.
Vincent raised the heavy revolver.
A single gunshot echoed through the massive steel warehouse, drowning out the roar of the ocean.
Before Moretti or his henchmen could react, Vincent’s vanguard opened fire. The heavy staccato of automatic gunfire ripped through the cold air, lighting up the dark interior of the warehouse with brilliant flashes of orange flame.
Within thirty seconds, it was over.
Moretti’s men lay still on the concrete floor. Victor Moretti slumped against a steel shipping container, his eyes staring blankly at the high ceiling.
Vincent stood in the center of the carnage, his weapon lowered, his breath coming in slow, steady mist. He looked down at his brother Frank, lying still on the concrete floor.
Marco stepped up beside Vincent, his rifle lowered, his face grim. "It's done, Boss. Pier 4 is secured. Moretti's empire will collapse by morning."
Vincent looked down at his hands— hands that had delivered death once more, hands that were covered in the invisible stain of his brother's blood. He felt no triumph, no satisfaction, no joy. He felt only an overwhelming, crushing weariness.
May you like
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the white silk handkerchief. He looked at it for a long moment, then turned toward the exit.
"Clean this place up, Marco," Vincent said softly, stepping out into the cold rain. "I have to go home to my grandson."
