Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Docks
The fog rolled heavily off the East River, wrapping around the rusted container cranes like a shroud of wet cotton. Inside Warehouse 4B, the air smelled of salt, diesel, and stale sweat.
Maeve stood near the edge of an open bay door, watching the dark water lap against the wooden pilings. The city skyline twinkled in the distance—a glittering monument to wealth and corruption that she had spent the last three years trying to dismantle from the inside out.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind her. Rocco walked up, handing her a steaming cup of black coffee without a word.
"You didn't just stumble into the club tonight, Maeve," Rocco said, his voice carrying easily over the sound of the river. "An undercover forensic accountant from the Federal Task Force doesn't just wander into a high-end mob stronghold and start handing loose change to a crippled crime boss by accident."
Maeve took the cup, blowing softly across the surface. She didn't flinch. She had anticipated this confrontation the moment she stepped through the doors of The Gilded Vulture.
"Your nephew left a very messy trail, Mr. Moretti," Maeve said calmly, turning to face him. "And the government wasn't the only organization interested in where Dominic was bleeding your syndicate dry. Some of us had personal reasons for wanting to see the books balanced."
"Your father," Rocco stated flatly. It wasn't a question.
Maeve’s fingers tightened around the ceramic mug. "Vincent Moretti. Your former partner. The man Dominic pushed off a freighter twenty years ago and wrote off as a tragic accident at sea."
Rocco didn't look away. His expression darkened, though not with anger—rather, with the heavy, bitter weight of long-buried ghosts. "Vincent was a good man. Too good for this life. I spent two decades looking for the bastard who put him in the water, assuming it was a rival family from Brooklyn."
"It was internal," Maeve said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Dominic was sixteen when he cut the winch cable. He wanted your approval, and he thought getting rid of your most trusted advisor was the way to do it. I was six. I watched it happen from the upper deck."
May you like
Silence stretched between them, heavier than the fog rolling off the river. Rocco stared at her, seeing the resemblance now—the sharp, analytical eyes, the unyielding posture, the quiet fire that refused to be put out.
"So," Rocco said slowly. "You didn't come to save me. You came to finish the execution."
