Chapter 8 - The Shadow at the Docks
Three weeks later.
The winter storm had finally cleared, leaving the Hudson River frozen along the edges in jagged sheets of white ice.
In the lower district of Newburgh, near the abandoned brick warehouses that lined the riverfront, Tony "The Stitch" Russo sat inside his heated Cadillac, chewing on the plastic tip of a cheap cigar.
Beside him sat Derek Lawson, his face bruised, his clothes rumpled and dirty.
"You said Marquetti didn't care about her!" Russo barked, slapping the steering wheel with his palm. "His men impounded your truck! They shut down my card room in Poughkeepsie three days ago!"
"I didn't know!" Derek whined, pulling his jacket tighter around himself. "She was just a damn maid! She didn't have no family! She was nobody!"
"Nobody?!" Russo spat, turning his heavy body to glare at Derek. "Marquetti put two guards at the gates of his estate! He bought her an apartment in Beacon! He’s burning down my operations because you brought your domestic trash to his driveway!"
Before Derek could answer, the driver's side window of the Cadillac shattered in a violent explosion of safety glass.
A heavy leather-gloved hand reached inside, unlocked the door, and threw it open.
Russo screamed as he was hauled out of the seat by his collar and thrown face-first onto the frozen asphalt of the parking lot. Derek tried to scramble out the passenger side, but the door was kicked shut against his leg with a sickening snap of bone.
Derek shrieked in agony, clutching his shattered shin as he rolled onto the cold pavement.
Standing over them in the pale afternoon sun was Silvano Marquetti, wearing a long black wool overcoat and dark leather gloves. Behind him stood six men in heavy dark coats, including Frankie Valenti.
Silvano didn't pull a weapon. He didn't shout. He walked slowly over to where Derek lay writhing on the ice.
Silvano crouched down beside him, his dark eyes colder than the river water fifty feet away.
"I gave you a bus ticket to Ohio, Derek," Silvano said softly, his voice carrying clearly over the sound of the wind blowing off the ice. "You didn't take it."
"Please!" Derek sobbed, clutching his broken leg, tears streaming down his dirty face. "Please, Mr. Marquetti! I’ll leave! I swear to God I’ll go to California! Just don't kill me!"
Silvano reached out and pulled the collar of Derek’s jacket, lifting him six inches off the ground.
"You think I'm going to kill you for Angela?" Silvano asked softly. "A man like you isn't worth the lead in a cartridge."
Silvano turned his head and looked at Russo, who was being held on his knees by two of Frankie’s men.
"Russo," Silvano called out.
"Yes, Silvano! Please!" Russo stammered, his teeth chattering in fear.
"Take this piece of garbage out of my county," Silvano commanded, tossing Derek back onto the frozen pavement like a sack of wet salt. "If I ever see his face—or yours—north of Westchester again, I will buy every brick of your garage and bury you beneath the floorboards."
May you like
Russo nodded frantically. "Yes, Boss! Today! We leave today!"
Silvano stood up, adjusted the cuffs of his leather gloves, and turned his back on them, walking toward his waiting black sedan without looking back once.
