Chapter 9 - The Settlement of the Docks
The private terminal at Pier 22 was freezing, the April wind carrying the sharp, salty stink of lake water and high-sulfur diesel exhaust from the container ships.
Vittorio Moretti sat in the back of his armored Mercedes limousine, his silver wolf-headed cane resting between his knees, his sharp, yellowed eyes watching the crane loaders lift thirty-ton steel boxes onto a freighter bound for Montreal.
The door of the limousine flew open.
Sienna Brooks climbed into the leather seat beside him without an invitation, her taped portfolio sliding across the console until it hit the silver head of his cane.
“You’re late for your check-in, Miss Brooks,” Vittorio said, his voice like dry leaves scraping across a tombstone. “I was about to call the Russians back.”
“The grand jury signed the indictments at three o'clock, Vittorio,” Sienna said, her breath coming in short, white plumes in the cold interior of the car. “But they didn't sign Dawson’s name. They signed yours.”
Vittorio didn't move. His yellowed eyes remained fixed on the shipping containers outside. “I own three judges in the Northern District, girl. My name doesn't stay on a federal warrant for more than twenty minutes.”
“They don't own the ledgers I sent to the Eastern District of New York,” Sienna said softly, leaning forward until her face was inches from his. “The Baltic Line shell company wasn't registered in Dawson’s name. I changed the corporate filing papers three months ago before I left the penthouse. I used your private digital signature—the one you used to clear the union fund cuts at the rail yard.”
Vittorio’s hand tightened around the wolf’s head until the silver groaned. The two enforcers in the front seat turned around, their hands moving inside their jackets.
“If they shoot me, Vittorio,” Sienna said, her voice dropping into that cold, authoritative cadence she had used in the trauma bay of the Onyx Lounge, “the delayed release files go straight to the attorney general’s office in Washington. You won't spend your winter in Rosemont. You’ll spend it in a federal prison in Colorado where they don't allow silver canes.”
The old man stared at her for a long, terrible minute, his breath rattling in his throat like a broken valve. Slowly, the iron wall of his arrogance crumbled, replaced by the frail, yellowed reality of an old criminal whose time had finally run out.
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“Where is he?” Vittorio whispered.
“He’s at the old grain elevator,” Sienna said, standing up and opening the door to the cold wind. “He’s waiting for the girl who broke his heart to tell him he’s finally free.”
