Chapter 3: The Ghost Ship
The tunnel led them half a mile away, spitting them out into a drainage culvert near the edge of the estate. A torrential rain had begun to fall, washing away the scent of gunpowder.
They trudged through the mud to a secluded lockup where Vincent kept a burner car—a nondescript black sedan.
As Vincent drove toward the city docks, the silence in the car was heavy.
“If Marcus is moving tonight, he’ll consolidate his power at Pier 44,” Vincent said, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “It’s neutral ground. He’ll call the capos there, tell them I was hit by a rival crew, and declare himself the new head of the family.”
“You have no loyal men left to call,” Elena warned, checking the magazine of her pistol. “If Tony turned on you, the whole command structure is compromised. We need to call my handler. The FBI can raid the pier.”
“No feds,” Vincent growled, his eyes burning with a cold, dead light. “This is family business. Marcus used my money, my home, and my name. I’m going to look him in the eye when I take it all back.”
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“It’s suicide, Torino. It’s just the two of us.”
“I built this empire with my bare hands, Elena,” Vincent said quietly. “I know exactly where its load-bearing walls are. I just have to knock them down.”
