Chapter 12: Sodium Lights of the Railyard
The industrial shipping yard was a sprawling labyrinth of rusted shipping containers, towering gantry cranes, and crisscrossing railway tracks bathed in the harsh, flickering orange glow of overhead sodium vapor lamps. A cold drizzle had begun to fall, slicking the wet asphalt and turning the air hazy with mist. Salvatore’s armored town car pulled to a sharp halt beside our hijacked container truck, its hazard lights flashing rhythmically against the dark steel flanks of the stacked cargo boxes.
Two men stepped out from the shadows between the containers, wearing heavy leather jackets and holding compact submachine guns loosely at their sides. Their leader, a scarred enforcer named Rossi who had once answered to Moretti, stepped forward into the amber light, a cynical grin splitting his rough features.
"Well, look who decided to show up," Rossi called out, his voice echoing off the metal walls of the container blocks. "The big boss and his little waitress. You really think you can run this city, Falcone? You're playing a game you don't understand."
Salvatore stepped out of the driver's side, his black suit immaculate against the industrial grit, his hand resting casually inside his jacket near his holster. I stepped out right behind him, my eyes locked on Rossi, refusing to shrink back into the shadows of the vehicle.
"The game changed the moment you touched my trucks, Rossi," Salvatore said, his voice carrying clearly over the hum of distant machinery. "Your bosses signed over their shares this morning. You're working for ghosts."
"We don't need shares, Falcone. We take what we want," Rossi snarled, raising his weapon slightly as two more men emerged from behind a stack of pallets to our left, cutting off our retreat.
Before Rossi could finish his sentence, I moved. Instead of freezing, I stepped forward into the open lane of light, drawing the attention away from Salvatore just long enough for my brother to clear his holster. In our line of work, hesitation was fatal, but surprise was absolute. Salvatore's pistol came up with practiced speed, the muzzle locked directly on Rossi's chest before the enforcer could adjust his aim.
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"Drop it," Salvatore commanded, the single word ringing like a hammer blow against steel.
Rossi looked at the barrel of the gun, then at my steady, unblinking eyes just a few feet away. Slowly, deliberately, the enforcer let his weapon slip from his fingers, clattering loudly against the wet asphalt. The remaining men lowered their weapons, melting back into the shadows of the railyard without another word.
