Chapter 12 - The Trap at the Docks
Midnight at the city's old riverfront shipping yard was a study in stark contrasts—pools of harsh sodium vapor light cutting through thick patches of fog rolling in from the dark water. The cavernous corrugated metal warehouses stood like silent monoliths against the damp night sky. I stepped out of the passenger side of Vincent's town car, my black pants and dark jacket blending seamlessly with the shadows, while Vincent moved around the hood with quiet, deliberate composure. Dominic Russo, reinstated to field operations for this specific detail, waited by the loading bay with two other associates, their dark suits dark against the concrete.
"He's coming with two cars," Dominic reported quietly as Vincent and I approached, his voice devoid of its previous resentment, replaced by the rigid discipline of a loyal soldier. "They think they're collecting a payoff. No backup visible beyond the immediate crew."
"Keep it contained," Vincent instructed smoothly, checking the time on his wristwatch before gesturing for us to spread out among the stacked shipping containers. "Cassidy handles the primary leverage. We don't need a bloodbath; we need a permanent lesson."
Minutes later, the twin beams of an aging sedan cut through the fog, rolling to a halt near the center bay. Marcus stepped out from the driver's side, adjusting his coat against the river chill, flanked by two heavy-set men from the Queens circuit who looked entirely out of their depth in Coletti territory. Marcus scanned the empty yard with a smug, confident smirk, spotting me standing near the edge of the sodium light.
"Glad to see you brought the payment, Cassidy," Marcus called out, walking forward with his hands loose at his sides. "I knew you were smart enough to realize you couldn't hide from us."
"You drove a long way for nothing, Marcus," I said, stepping into the bright circle of light, my hands resting lightly at my sides as I balanced my weight.
Marcus laughed, gesturing to his men to fan out. "You really think a back-alley bartender can—"
He didn't finish the sentence. From the shadows between the containers, Dominic and the associates moved with lightning speed, cutting off his men before they could react. At the same time, Marcus lunged toward me with a frustrated roar, throwing a sloppy, overextended right hook meant to intimidate.
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I ducked easily beneath his swing, pivoting on my heel just as I had in the warehouse, and drove a sharp, perfectly controlled palm strike straight into his chest, followed by a crisp sweep that sent him crashing hard onto the damp concrete. He groaned, clutching his ribs as the breath left his lungs in a sudden rush.
Vincent stepped out from the fog, standing over Marcus with cold, absolute authority. "The debt is settled, Marcus," Vincent said, his voice carrying easily over the sound of the river. "And if you ever set foot in this district again, you won't walk out."
