Chapter 9 - The Ghost of Pier 42
Midnight at Pier 42 of the Moretti shipping yards was a desolate, fog-choked wasteland of towering rust-stained cranes, stacked shipping containers, and the dark, churning waters of Lake Michigan slapping against concrete pilings. A single halogen overhead light cast a sickly yellow glare over the empty tarmac, where a lone black Mercedes Maybach sat idling, its exhaust pipes puffing white clouds into the freezing night air.
Inside the car, Vincenzo Moretti sat in the back seat, swirling a glass of amber scotch, his face illuminated by the pale blue glow of his smartphone as he reviewed stock market futures for the upcoming morning board vote. He looked invincible. He looked like the undisputed king of the underworld.
The driver’s side door of the Maybach suddenly clicked open.
Vincenzo didn't look up immediately, assuming it was his lead operative returning from the estate with the confirmation he had been waiting hours for. "Did you burn it to the ground?" Vincenzo asked smoothly, not bothering to turn his head. "I want no trace of my dear cousin left behind for the coroners to puzzle over."
"The estate is still standing, Vincenzo," a voice replied from the darkness outside the open door.
Vincenzo froze.
The glass of scotch slipped from his fingers, shattering against the floor mats as amber liquid splashed across his designer shoes. He whipped his head around toward the open door.
Standing right there beside the vehicle, bathed in the sickly yellow glare of the halogen light, was Lorenzo Moretti.
He wasn't in his wheelchair.
Using a pair of heavy tactical forearm crutches locked securely around his biceps, Lorenzo stood upright, his powerful, scarred torso rigid, his legs braced in heavy medical leg braces that locked his knees straight against the cold pavement. He looked like a statue carved out of granite and vengeance—battered, scarred, but standing tall under his own sheer, indomitable willpower.
Vincenzo’s breath caught in his throat, his face turning the color of chalk. He scrambled backward across the plush leather seat like a trapped spider, his eyes wide with superstitious terror.
"Y-you... you're dead! You can't stand! You're a cripple!" Vincenzo shrieked, his voice cracking into a high-pitched panic.
"Miracles happen every day, cousin," Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a dark, lethal register as he stepped forward, the heavy metal crutches striking the concrete with a slow, rhythmic, terrifying clack... clack... clack.
From behind the shipping container shadows flanking the pier, four heavy black SUVs pulled out smoothly, their high-beams snapping on simultaneously, blinding Vincenzo with a wall of harsh white light. The doors opened, and dozens of loyal Moretti capos—men Vincenzo thought he had successfully bought off or sidelined—stepped out into the open, their weapons drawn and leveled squarely at the Mercedes.
And stepping out of the lead vehicle, holding the heavy platinum medallion of the Sigillo della Rosa high in her hand, was Elena.
Vincenzo realized in that single, crushing heartbeat that he had been played. The phone call, the decoy extraction, the entire trap had been engineered from the very beginning to draw him out into the open where he had no corporate alibis, no legal shields, and no escape.
"You set me up," Vincenzo whispered, his voice trembling as Lorenzo stopped right beside the open door of the Maybach, looking down at him with eyes as cold as deep-sea ice.
"You set yourself up the moment you cut my brake lines," Lorenzo replied, raising his right arm, unlatching his forearm crutch for a split second to deliver a devastating, open-handed right cross that knocked Vincenzo sideways across the leather seats, splitting his lip and sending blood spraying across the upholstery.
Vincenzo collapsed against the opposite door, spitting blood, clutching his jaw, glaring up at his cousin with pure, unadulterated venom. "You think killing me changes anything?! The board votes tomorrow! The syndicate owns the port authority! You'll never hold the empire together from that chair!"
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Lorenzo locked his crutch back into place, leaned down slightly, and smiled a cold, razor-sharp smile.
"Who said anything about staying in the chair?" Lorenzo said softly. Then, raising his voice so every capo and soldier on the pier could hear, he roared, "Seize him! Take him to the holding freighter! Tomorrow morning, we introduce my cousin to a federal grand jury with full corporate confessions!"
