Chapter 2 - The Shadows of Queens
We left the funeral home under a sky the color of bruised iron. Rain had begun to fall, a cold October drizzle that slicked the asphalt of Queens.
I got into the back seat of my armored Cadillac. Bruno hopped in beside me, his long, dark coat damp from the rain. He laid his chin heavily across my knee, letting out a long sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire city. I stroked his broad, scarred head. Eight years ago, I had found Bruno as a malnourished pup in an abandoned warehouse during a bust up in the Bronx. Someone had trained him to fight, but he had refused to bite. They had left him to starve. I fed him a sausage from my sandwich, and he followed me home. Since that day, he hadn't left my side.
"Where to, Boss?" asked Frankie, my driver, looking at me in the rearview mirror.
"The office. Tell the lieutenants I want a full council in one hour. Every capo from Queens, Brooklyn, and Manhattan. If anyone is late, tell them they don't need to bother coming at all."
"Got it."
While Frankie made the calls, I stared out the window at the passing city lights. My mind was racing. Marco was my underboss. He didn't just manage collections; he held the keys to the kingdom. He knew our bank accounts, our judge payoffs, our shipping routes, and our informants within the NYPD.
If Marco was skimming money to cover three-million-dollar Colombian drops, he wasn't working alone. A man like Marco doesn't have the courage to steal millions from me without a safety net. Someone was backing him. Someone big.
When we arrived at the back entrance of our headquarters—a discreet import-export company fronting near the Brooklyn Navy Yard—the rain was coming down in sheets.
The conference room was already packed when I walked in. Six capos sat around the long mahogany table. The room was thick with cigar smoke and nervous energy. When I entered, followed by Bruno whose claws clicked loudly against the hardwood floor, every man stood up.
"Sit," I said, taking my place at the head of the table. Bruno curled up right behind my chair, his black eyes fixed on the men around the room, scanning, listening.
"Boss," spoke up Sal, the oldest capo in the family, a man who had served under my father. "We heard rumors about what happened at the funeral home. Is it true about Marco?"
"Marco is in the meat locker," I said plainly.
A collective gasp went through the room.
"He ran down Vasquez’s daughter," I continued, watching their faces closely. "He was running an illegal drug line with the Colombians behind my back. He killed a child to cover his tracks, and then he stood in a funeral home and lied to my face."
Sal slammed his fist on the table. "Disgraceful! That's against every rule we have! We don't touch kids! We don't bring the heat into civilian streets!"
"I know the rules, Sal," I said softly. "What I want to know is who helped him."
Silence fell over the room. It was thick, heavy, dangerous.
"Nobody here would back a rat like Marco, Don Hector," said Jimmy 'The Tooth', a younger capo who managed our docks. "We all knew Marco was getting greedy, but drugs? With the Colombians? That’s suicide. You banned the white powder ten years ago."
"Someone gave him the capital," I said. "Three million dollars doesn't just appear in an underboss’s trunk. If Marco was buying from the Colombians, he needed paper. He needed clean cash."
Bruno suddenly raised his head. His ears pricked up.
He didn't growl, but he let out a sharp, soft puff of air through his nose—a warning sound. I followed his gaze. He wasn't looking at Sal, nor Jimmy, nor any of the older capos. He was looking at a man sitting at the far end of the table: Paulie Vane, our financial manager, the man who handled our offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands.
Paulie was sweating. A thin sheen of perspiration glistened on his receding hairline. His fingers were nervously tapping against the leather briefcase on his lap.
"Paulie," I said, my voice smooth as silk.
"Y-yes, Boss?" Paulie stammered, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses.
"You look warm. Is the heating too high?"
"No, Don Hector. It's... it's just horrible news about the little girl. Horrible. Marco was a monster."
"You handle the books, Paulie," I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. "Did you notice three million dollars missing from our reserves over the last month?"
"I... well, you see, Boss, accounting is complex. We had investments in the real estate sector in Jersey, and with the new tax regulations—"
"Paulie," I interrupted. "Bruno doesn't like accountants who lie."
At the sound of his name, Bruno stood up. He walked slowly around the table, his heavy paws making a rhythmic thud-thud-thud on the rug. He stopped right beside Paulie’s chair. He didn't bark. He just rested his massive jaw directly on Paulie’s knee, looking up at him with dark, unblinking eyes.
Paulie froze. He looked down at the massive head resting on his leg, then looked at me, his face pale as chalk.
"If you move your leg, Paulie," I warned gently, "he might think you're aggressive. And when Bruno thinks someone is aggressive, he doesn't wait for my permission."
"I... I didn't want to, Hector!" Paulie burst out, his voice cracking into a high-pitched whine. "They forced me!"
"Who forced you, Paulie?"
"The Russians!" Paulie squealed, pressing his back into his chair so hard the wood groaned. "The Bratva! Victor Radkov! He contacted Marco two months ago! They wanted to set up a pipeline through our docks! Marco took the deal, and when he couldn't cover the first payment, Radkov threatened to tell you! Marco used our offshore funds to pay Radkov!"
The room erupted. Sal stood up, cursing profusely. Jimmy pulled a piece from his shoulder holster before I raised a single hand to restore order.
"The Russians," I repeated.
Victor Radkov was the leader of the Red Star Syndicate, a brutal Russian crew that had been trying to push into our Brooklyn docks for five years. We had been in a cold war with them, a delicate balance of power that kept the peace in New York.
"So Marco wasn't just a murderer," I said, a cold rage settling into my blood. "He was a traitor. He sold us to Radkov."
I stood up from the table. Bruno immediately backed away from Paulie and fell into step behind me.
"Sal, take Paulie down to the holding cells," I commanded. "Don't kill him. We'll need his testimony when we seize those accounts back. Jimmy, gather twenty of our best men. Fully armed. Heavy hardware."
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"Where are we going, Don Hector?" Jimmy asked, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
"We're going to pay a visit to Victor Radkov," I said, looking out the rain-streaked window toward the distant skyline of Brighton Beach. "And we're going to teach him what happens when you do business in my city."
