Chapter 8 - The Weight of Steel
Marco let out a startled curse, his boots slipping off the wet rungs of the ladder. He tumbled backward onto the wooden decking, the manila envelope sliding across the wet planks toward the edge of the harbor basin.
He rolled over, his face twisted in venomous shock, reaching inside his coat for a snub-nosed revolver. “You stupid little bitch!”
Before his fingers could clear leather, a heavy black combat boot slammed down onto his wrist with a sickening crack.
Marco screamed, the revolver spinning away into the black water forty feet below.
Alessandro stood over him. His white bandages were soaked crimson from the physical exertion, his face drenched in sweat and rain, his shotgun leveled directly at the bridge of Marco’s nose.
“Touch her again,” Alessandro whispered, his voice deadly quiet, “and I will feed you to the harbor crabs while you’re still breathing.”
The gunfire in the warehouse had died down. Victor’s men had rounded up the surviving mercenaries, disarming them with cold, practiced efficiency. The only sound left was the mournful cry of a harbor foghorn and the rhythmic slap of freezing waves against the pilings.
Marco lay in the mud, clutching his broken wrist, his eyes wide with the realization that his empire had vanished in twelve minutes of gunfire.
“Alessandro... please,” Marco stammered, his bravado evaporating into pathetic, sniveling terror. “We’re blood. Our fathers built this together! You can’t kill me over some dead dockworker’s paperwork!”
Alessandro didn't answer. He looked down at the manila envelope lying in the sleet.
“Pick it up, Clara,” Alessandro said softly, not taking his eyes off his cousin.
I knelt in the freezing slush, picked up the envelope, and opened the clasp.
Inside lay my father’s handwritten maintenance log from November 14, 2014. The last entry was written in his firm, blue ballpoint script:
“Crane 4 hoist cables showing 40% shear stress. Reported to Mr. Romano Sr. Was ordered to clear Gate 4 for unmarked cargo anyway. Refused. Will take logs to federal building tomorrow morning. God forgive this company.”
Beneath the log was a single Polaroid photograph.
It showed my father standing on the dock, smiling with his arm around my mother, who was young, vibrant, and laughing into the salt wind.
Tears streamed down my cheeks, hot and bitter against the freezing rain.
“He knew,” I whispered, looking at Alessandro. “Your father knew that cable was frayed. He didn't just ignore it. He loosened it.”
Alessandro closed his eyes for a single, painful second. When he opened them, the cold slate had returned, darker and more terrifying than ever.
“Marco,” Alessandro said, cocking the hammer of the shotgun.
“Alessandro, wait!” Marco shrieked, pressing his back against the steel crane leg. “I have the offshore keys! The Cayman accounts—eighty million dollars! I’ll sign everything over to you! Just let me take the morning flight to Lisbon!”
Alessandro looked at me.
“What is he worth, Clara?” Alessandro asked, his voice cutting through the wind. “You told me the cup was three dollars. What is this man worth to you?”
I looked at Marco Romano. I looked at the man who had tried to murder my mother, who had terrorized our neighborhood, who had treated human lives like cheap cargo on a shipping manifest.
“He isn't worth three dollars,” I said, my voice steady, stripped of all hatred. “He isn't worth a single cent of my father’s blood.”
Alessandro nodded once.
He lowered the shotgun, turned to Victor, and said, “Call Detective Ruiz at Central Precinct. Tell her the federal whistleblower files on Moretti Logistics are waiting on the dock. Give her Marco.”
May you like
Marco blinked, stunned. “You’re... you’re turning me over to the feds?”
“In federal prison, you will spend twenty-five years eating three-dollar meals on plastic trays,” Alessandro said, turning his back on his cousin. “And every morning, you will remember who put you there.”
