Chapter 8 - The Breach on Tenth Avenue
The warehouse district along Tenth Avenue was completely dead by two in the morning.
A freezing drizzle fell from the black sky, coating the cracked asphalt with a glossy sheen of oil and water.
Industrial streetlights buzzed with a dull amber glow, casting long, warped shadows across corrugated metal loading docks.
Inside the refrigerated warehouse of Castiglione Meats, the air smelled of salt brine, copper, and cured pork.
Three hundred heavy beef carcasses hung from overhead steel rails, wrapped in coarse white muslin like a silent army of corpses.
On the second-floor mezzanine, light spilled through the frosted glass windows of the administrative office.
Dominic Castiglione sat behind a laminate desk, his designer Italian leather jacket thrown over the back of an ergonomic swivel chair.
He was thirty-two years old, with slicked-back black hair, a thin mustache, and gold chains gleaming against his black turtleneck.
Before him sat two open bottles of tequila, three stacks of banded hundred-dollar bills, and a ledger containing the weekly extortion returns from seven local produce markets.
Four guards lounged in the outer bullpen, playing poker around a folding card table with their heavy jackets unzipped, showing Glock holsters beneath their arms.
Two more stood downstairs near the loading bay entrance, smoking cigarettes under the dripping awning.
Dominic took a long swig of tequila straight from the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist.
“Where is Collins?” Dominic muttered to his lieutenant, a thick-necked man named Vinnie sitting across from him.
“The gala ended four hours ago.”
“He was supposed to wire the monthly holding confirmation by midnight.”
Vinnie shrugged, peeling the wrapper off a cigar.
“Collins is probably counting the silver he skimmed from the catering tables.”
“That fat bastard is always late.”
Dominic frowned, leaning back in his chair.
“Anthony is breathing down my neck about the girl.”
“Her twenty-fifth birthday is in two weeks.”
“The lawyers are finalizing the probate paperwork in Scranton to open Michael Reed’s old safety deposit box.”
“If Collins let that girl slip out of the Belmont gate, I’ll take his skin off myself.”
A sudden, dull thud sounded from the loading bay downstairs.
It was not the sound of a closing door.
It was the heavy, wet impact of a falling body.
Dominic froze, the tequila bottle hovering an inch above the desk.
“What the hell was that?” Dominic hissed.
Vinnie stood up, reaching for the heavy .45 tucked into his waistband.
“I’ll check the bay.”
Before Vinnie could reach the office door, the frosted glass panel shattered inward in an explosion of white powder and flying shards.
A concussion grenade detonated inside the mezzanine bullpen.
CRACK.
The flash of white light was blinding, accompanied by a deafening roar that blew out the remaining window frames and sent the guards tumbling backward over their folding chairs.
Dominic dropped beneath the laminate desk, his ears ringing with high-pitched static, his vision swimming in purple spots.
Through the smoke drifting into the doorway, three figures moved with the terrifying, mechanical precision of professional soldiers.
Jake Romano stepped through the shattered entrance first.
He wore a black tactical vest over his dress shirt, carrying a short-barreled suppressed submachine gun held firmly against his shoulder.
Behind him came Marco and two seasoned Romano enforcers, moving in overlapping firing arcs.
Vinnie scrambled to his knees, his .45 coming up toward Jake’s chest.
Jake did not flinch.
He squeezed the trigger twice.
Phut. Phut.
Two suppressed rounds struck Vinnie in the center of his chest.
The heavy lieutenant collapsed backward against the file cabinets, knocking over three metal drawers with a hollow clatter before sliding down to the floor, motionless.
The other three guards in the bullpen barely had time to draw their weapons before Marco and the flanking enforcer neutralized them with disciplined double-taps.
The entire engagement took less than eight seconds.
The only sound left in the mezzanine was the hiss of the sprinkler system that had been triggered by the grenade’s heat, raining cold water over the bodies and the blood-soaked poker table.
Jake stepped over Vinnie’s legs, his tactical boots crunching on the broken window glass.
He walked into the inner office and kicked the laminate desk aside with a single violent thrust.
The desk slammed against the wall.
Dominic Castiglione lay huddled on the floor, clutching a silver-plated snub-nosed revolver with trembling hands.
Before Dominic could level the barrel, Jake’s boot came down like an anvil on Dominic’s wrist.
SNAP.
The bone gave way with a sharp, sickening crunch.
Dominic let out a high-pitched, strangled scream of agony, his fingers opening as the revolver fell to the linoleum.
Jake reached down, grabbed Dominic by the front of his black turtleneck, and hoisted him off the floor with one arm.
He slammed the younger mobster against the wood-paneled wall, pressing his forearm directly against Dominic’s windpipe.
Dominic choked, his face turning dark crimson, his uninjured hand clawing helplessly at Jake’s forearm.
Jake looked into Dominic’s bulging eyes, his face completely devoid of mercy.
“Dominic,” Jake said softly.
The silence between them was louder than the screams in the hallway.
Dominic coughed, blood spattering over his lips.
“Jake... Romano...” Dominic wheezed.
“You’re... dead... Anthony will... butcher your whole family...”
Jake tilted his head slightly, his grip tightening until Dominic’s feet dangled two inches above the wet floor.
“Julian Vance,” Jake said.
Dominic’s eyes widened with a sudden, suffocating panic.
“You remember Julian, don't you?” Jake whispered.
“The man who served your uncle for seven years.”
“The man who asked for nothing more than his clean release and a pregnant maid from the Belmont estate.”
Dominic’s lips trembled against the blood running into his mouth.
“Vance... was a traitor...”
“He tried to steal... the girl...”
Jake leaned closer, his dark eyes boring into Dominic’s soul.
“The girl is sitting by the fire in my grandfather’s manor, Dominic.”
Dominic’s breath caught entirely.
The realization that the Romanos had secured Sophie Reed struck him like an electrical shock.
“No...” Dominic gasped.
“Yes,” Jake said.
“And my grandfather wants to know where Anthony is hiding the paperwork Michael Reed signed before you ran him off Route 9.”
Dominic shook his head frantically, terrified tears cutting tracks through the grime on his cheeks.
“I don't have it!”
“Anthony has the original probate filings!”
“They’re in the family safe at the north estate in Riverdale!”
Jake studied Dominic’s face for three cold seconds.
He knew when a man was lying to save his skin, and he knew when a man was speaking the unvarnished truth out of pure, unadulterated terror.
Jake turned his head toward Marco, who stood in the shattered doorway with his weapon lowered.
“Bag him,” Jake ordered.
“Put him in the trunk of the secondary vehicle.”
Marco stepped forward with heavy plastic zip-ties and a black canvas hood.
Dominic began weeping hysterically as Marco pinned his broken wrist behind his back.
“Please, Jake!”
“Don't give me to Henry!”
“My uncle will pay whatever you want!”
“Ten million!”
“Twenty million!”
Jake didn't answer him.
He walked over to the laminate desk, picked up the open ledger containing the Castiglione extortion records, and tucked it beneath his arm.
Then he looked at the bottle of tequila resting on the floor.
He picked it up, unscrewed the cap, and poured the remaining liquor over the stacks of banded hundred-dollar bills and the paperwork scattered across the desk.
He pulled a silver lighter from his tactical vest, flicked the flint, and dropped the flame onto the soaked paper.
A blue and orange sheet of fire erupted across the desk, illuminating the shattered office with a roaring inferno.
May you like
Jake turned his back on the flames and walked out into the corridor of hanging beef carcasses.
The scent of slaughter followed him out into the freezing rain.
