Chapter 7 - VENGEANCE IN SILK
The Rise of the WaitressThe abandoned sugar refinery in Brooklyn was a massive, rotting cathedral of brick and rusted iron. It sat on a narrow peninsula jutting out into the East River, its towering smokestacks rising into the foggy sky like broken fingers.
Nora sat in the back of the gray sedan, her knee wrapped in a tight elastic bandage. She had refused to go to the hospital. She knew that the moment she stepped into an emergency room, the police—or the Valentis—would find her.
Marcello was standing outside the car, leaning on a heavy cane. His color had returned, his face carrying a cold, lethal determination.
"They're coming," Russo said, looking through a pair of night-vision binoculars. "Four cars. No lights. They think they’ve got us cornered."
"Let them think it," Marcello said. He turned to Nora. "You stay in the car. If this goes bad, Russo has orders to take you to the docks and get you on a boat to Boston. You'll be safe there."
"I don't want to go to Boston," Nora said, her voice flat. "I want to watch."
Marcello looked at her, a low, appreciative chuckle escaping his lips. "You really are a Rossi."
The first Valenti car entered the refinery yard at 4:15 a.m.
The headlights flickered on, illuminating the rusted machinery and the towering brick walls. The doors opened, and eight men stepped out, their weapons drawn. Among them was Anatoly Valenti himself—a short, portly man with a silver mustache and a custom-made trench coat.
"Marcello!" Valenti called out, his voice echoing off the brick walls. "Come out! It’s over! Your captains have already signed the contracts. You have no family left!"
Silence hung over the yard, broken only by the sound of the river lapping against the rotted wooden pilings.
"Come on, Marcello," Valenti sneered. "Don't die in a dump like this. It’s beneath you."
From the shadows of the upper deck of the refinery, a voice answered.
"I'm not dying tonight, Anatoly."
Marcello stepped out onto a metal gantry thirty feet above the yard. The single light of his cigarette flickered in the dark.
"But you are."
Valenti’s men raised their weapons to fire, but they never got the chance.
The brick walls of the refinery erupted with muzzle flashes. Russo and ten of Marcello’s loyalists had set up an ambush in the upper windows, their rifles raining a storm of lead down onto the open yard.
The Valenti cars were turned into Swiss cheese in a matter of seconds. The windshields shattered, the tires blew out, and three of Valenti’s hitters fell to the ground before they could even pull their triggers.
"Retreat!" Valenti screamed, ducking behind the rear wheel of his armored sedan. "Get us out of here!"
But the gate behind them was already blocked by two of Marcello’s heavy delivery trucks.
Nora watched the slaughter from the backseat of the sedan. She didn't flinch. She didn't look away. She felt a strange, cold satisfaction as she watched the men who had threatened her life being systematically eliminated in the dark.
May you like
She realized then that her Nonna Chiara had been right. In this city, you are either the hand that holds the needle, or you are the cloth being torn apart.
She was tired of being the cloth.
