Chapter 8 - The Shadow of Pier 42
The fog rolled off the East River like a suffocating shroud of cold steam.
The rusted corrugated steel roofs of Pier 42 creaked under the bitter autumn wind blowing across the water.
Gianna stepped out of the black town car alone, her footsteps echoing against the damp wooden planks of the abandoned loading dock.
The scent of diesel exhaust, brackish seawater, and rotting wood hung thick in the freezing air.
Fifty yards ahead, parked under the amber glow of a flickering mercury vapor lamp, sat three black armored Suburbans.
A dozen men in heavy tactical parkas stood with their hands resting on concealed submachine guns beneath their jackets.
At the center of the formation stood Carmine Bianchi, a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties wrapped in a cashmere overcoat.
His hair was silver, slicked back against his scalp, and a thick gold pinky ring gleamed on his gloved hand.
Carmine smiled when he saw the lone girl walking toward him through the creeping river fog.
“Vincent Falcone’s little girl,” Carmine announced, his booming voice echoing through the hollow expanse of the shipyard.
“You have your father’s stubborn chin, Gianna.”
“And my father’s signature on every shipping manifest you ever tried to burn,” Gianna countered, stopping twenty feet from his armed detail.
Carmine let out a theatrical laugh that sounded like dry gravel grinding together.
“Your father was a stubborn peasant who didn't understand the realities of corporate expansion,” Carmine sneered, taking two slow steps toward her.
“He thought he could hide fifty percent of the North Atlantic shipping corridors in a private bank vault and lock out the family.”
“He knew you were a thief, Carmine,” Gianna retorted, keeping her voice completely calm despite the laser sights tracing her coat.
“He knew you would bleed the families dry to fund your private drug shipments through the Brooklyn ports.”
Carmine’s smile hardened into a cruel, venomous snarl.
“Where is my nephew’s body, girl?” Carmine demanded, snapping his fingers.
“Luca dragged him somewhere to rot, but it doesn't matter.”
“Sergio was weak, just like his father.”
“Give me the signet ring and the seven-digit master routing pin, and I might let your mother live to see tomorrow morning.”
Gianna slowly reached into her coat pocket, keeping her fingers in plain sight.
She pulled out the heavy gold signet ring and held it between her thumb and forefinger under the amber streetlight.
“My mother is already safe, Carmine,” Gianna said clearly, enunciating every word into the hidden lapel microphone beneath her scarf.
“Your saboteur in the basement of Queens General sang like a bird thirty minutes ago.”
Carmine’s brow furrowed, his eyes darting toward the lieutenant standing beside his vehicle.
“Check the hospital link!” Carmine barked over his shoulder.
The lieutenant looked down at his tablet, his face instantly draining of color.
“The feed is down, Boss,” the man stammered, tapping the glass screen frantically.
“Our men inside the clinic aren't answering their phones.”
Before Carmine could shout another command, the darkness around the pier exploded with deafening sound.
Two massive commercial container cranes overhead suddenly ignited their stadium-grade halogen searchlights, illuminating the pier in blinding white light.
From behind the stacked shipping containers on both sides, forty armed men wearing Bianchi Enterprises security vests moved into flanking positions.
At the front of the formation, walking with a calculated, lethal grace despite his bandaged torso, emerged Sergio Bianchi.
The air grew deathly still, the only sound being the distant lapping of river waves against the pilings.
Carmine staggered backward against the hood of his SUV, his eyes bulging in pure disbelief.
“You’re dead,” Carmine stammered, his hand instinctively reaching inside his cashmere coat.
“I saw the blood from the warehouse feed!”
“You saw what I wanted you to see, Uncle,” Sergio said, his voice carrying the authority of an executioner.
“Drop the weapons, Carmine.”
“The Port Authority police and the federal marshals are already sealing the gate behind you.”
Carmine’s eyes darted frantically between Sergio’s advancing soldiers and Gianna standing defiantly in the center of the pier.
A sudden flash of desperate madness contorted Carmine’s weathered face.
He whipped out a snub-nosed revolver and leveled the barrel directly at Gianna’s forehead.
“If I lose the ports, Vincent’s blood dies tonight!” Carmine roared, squeezing the trigger.
Sergio moved with terrifying speed, lunging forward and slamming his body weight into Gianna just as the gunshot cracked like thunder.
The bullet grazed the shoulder of Sergio’s coat, ripping the wool and sending him tumbling to the damp planks with Gianna beneath him.
At that exact instant, Luca’s sniper rifle cracked from atop a shipping container forty yards away.
The high-velocity round tore through Carmine’s right shoulder, shattering the bone and sending his revolver skittering into the dark water below.
Carmine’s mercenaries dropped their weapons onto the concrete, raising their hands as Bianchi’s security perimeter collapsed inward around them.
Sergio lay breathless on the wet planks, his forehead pressed against Gianna’s hair as his ragged breaths filled her ears.
“Did he hit you?” Sergio whispered hoarsely, his hands checking her neck and shoulders for injuries.
“I’m fine,” Gianna breathed, staring up at him through the blinding stadium glare.
“You took another hit for me, Sergio.”
“I told you,” Sergio murmured, a faint, exhausted grin touching his pale lips.
May you like
“The Bianchis owe the Falcones a twenty-year debt.”
“And I always balance my books.”
