Chapter 3 - Blood on the Docks
The ocean air at Pier 42 was thick with the smell of diesel, rust, and salt. Giant metal shipping containers were stacked six high, creating narrow, shadowy alleys that were perfect for ambushes.
Gabriel stood near the edge of the concrete dock, flanked by Marcus and six heavily armed Moretti enforcers. Across from him stood Vincent Russo, a greasy, arrogant man in his late fifties who controlled the waterfront unions through fear and extortion. Behind Russo stood a dozen men in heavy leather jackets, their hands tucked suspiciously inside their coats.
"You're late, Gabriel," Russo sneered, spitting onto the concrete. "And you canceled on me yesterday. That's not very polite for a man who wants my permission to use these docks."
"I don't ask for permission, Vincent," Gabriel said coldly, taking a cigar from his pocket and lighting it without taking his eyes off Russo. "I inform you of terms. My ships dock here starting Monday. You take your five percent cut, keep your union boys quiet, and stay out of my way."
Russo laughed, a dry, raspy sound. "Five percent? Times have changed, Moretti. Since your old man died, you think you run this city. But you're soft. You live up in your fancy castle in Westchester with your crippled kid, playing house while real men do the work."
The air around Gabriel instantly turned lethal. Marcus raised his weapon slightly beneath his coat.
"Say that again," Gabriel whispered, his voice dangerously low.
Russo stepped forward, emboldened by the sheer number of men he had brought. "I said, your kid is broken, Gabriel. Just like your authority. I want twenty percent of the shipping revenue, or none of your crates leave these docks alive."
Gabriel didn't hesitate. In one fluid, terrifying movement, he drew his custom silver-plated pistol, stepped inside Russo's guard, and slammed the heavy barrel directly into the center of Russo's teeth.
Bone shattered with a sickening crunch. Russo shrieked, collapsing to his knees, clutching his bleeding mouth.
Instantly, every weapon on the dock was drawn. A dozen guns were pointed directly at Gabriel's head, while Marcus and the Moretti guards took positions behind shipping crates, ready for a bloodbath.
Gabriel didn't even look at the weapons aimed at him. He stood over Russo, pressing the hot barrel of his gun against the older man's forehead.
"Listen to me very carefully, Vincent," Gabriel said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. "You can take ten percent, or I can kill you right now, bury your body under three tons of concrete, and give five percent to your lieutenant, who is currently standing behind you hoping I pull this trigger."
Russo looked up in terror, seeing the absolute lack of mercy in Gabriel's cold gray eyes. He gasped, spitting blood onto Gabriel's polished leather shoes. "Okay! Okay! Ten percent! Ten percent!"
"Good," Gabriel said. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, casually wiped the blood off the barrel of his gun, and tucked it back into his holster. "And if you ever mention my daughter again, I won't just kill you. I'll destroy everything you have ever built."
Gabriel turned his back on twelve armed men, completely uncaring, and walked back toward his Maybach. Marcus fell in beside him, breathing a heavy sigh of relief.
"That was too close, boss," Marcus muttered, climbing into the front passenger seat as the Maybach pulled away from the docks. "Russo is a wild dog. He won't forget this."
"Let him try," Gabriel said, checking his watch. It was 4:30 PM. "Get us back to Westchester."
"Sir," Marcus said, turning his head slightly. "I got the secondary report on Hannah Mercer from our contact in Philadelphia."
Gabriel looked up from his phone. "And?"
"The daycare center she worked at didn't close due to lack of funding," Marcus said, holding up a printout. "It closed because six months ago, there was an attempted kidnapping of a child belonging to a wealthy local family. Hannah Mercer intervened. She fought off two armed men, got the child to safety, and then completely disappeared. Her name was wiped from the police report twenty-four hours later."
Gabriel felt a sharp tightening in his chest. "Wiped by whom?"
"High-level federal intervention," Marcus answered grimly. "Someone protected her identity. She isn't a mob plant, Gabriel. She's someone who ran away from something dangerous."
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Gabriel stared out the black tinted window as the city skyline faded into the wooded highways of Westchester. Hannah Mercer wasn't just a maid with a soft voice and a knack for therapy. She was a woman with secrets—secrets that were now living under the same roof as his daughters.
"Keep this between us," Gabriel ordered Marcus. "Don't touch her. Don't let her know we know. I'll deal with Miss Mercer myself."
