Chapter 3 - Blood on the DocksThe sirens wailed in the distance, a hollow soundtrack to the destruction unfolding at Pier 44. Flames licked the night sky, turning the heavy Atlantic fog into an eerie, blood-orange haze.
Norma stood beside Joseph’s idling bulletproof Maybach, her knuckles white as she gripped the door handle. Caesar the bulldog was tucked safely inside the back seat, sleeping soundly on cashmere upholstery, completely oblivious to the fact that his rescue had triggered a declaration of war.
"Stay in the car," Joseph ordered, his hand resting on the latching mechanism to lock her in.
"Like hell I will," Norma snapped, slipping past his arm with an eel-like agility born of dodging angry dock foremen. "That’s my father’s slip they’re burning! That’s where I learned to tie a bowline!"
Joseph cursed under his breath, his long stride easily keeping pace with her as they marched toward the smoldering ruins of the warehouse. The air smelled of burnt creosote, melting plastic, and roasted salt.
Standing in the center of the charred pier was a man Norma recognized instantly: Victor "The Butcher" Cruz, a rival syndicate boss from the South Brooklyn docks, flanked by six heavies with submachine guns tucked beneath their trench coats.
"Trevino!" Cruz shouted over the crackle of burning timber. "You've grown soft in your old age! Keeping stray dogs and stray kids! Hand over the fisherman’s daughter, and maybe I’ll let you keep half your shipping lanes!"
Joseph didn't draw a weapon. He didn't even raise his voice. He simply walked forward until he was ten feet from Cruz, his hands tucked casually into his tailored wool trousers.
"Victor," Joseph said, his voice dropping an octave into a chilling register. "You burned my warehouse. That cost six million dollars."
"That’s just a down payment—"
"And you threatened a guest in my house," Joseph continued, his eyes locking onto Cruz with the dead, unblinking stare of a shark. "That is unforgivable."
With a flick of Joseph’s wrist—a micro-gesture so fast Norma barely caught it—twelve red laser dots blossomed across the chests of Cruz’s guards. From the roof beams above, Trevino’s snipers had them dead to rights.
May you like
Cruz’s face drained of color. "Wait, Joseph—let's talk business—"
"There is no business," Joseph whispered. "Marco. Clean the pier."
