Chapter 3 - The Red Hook Docks
The rain had turned into a thick, freezing fog by the time night fell over Brooklyn.
The Red Hook waterfront was a graveyard of rusted shipping containers, abandoned brick warehouses, and oily black water slapping against wooden piers. The streetlamps were mostly broken, leaving the alleyways swallowed in total darkness.
Inside Warehouse 14—a sprawling, three-story brick structure once used for cold meat storage—the air smelled of damp concrete, diesel fuel, and old blood.
Sitting on a folding chair in the center of the vast, hollow floor was Lorenzo Romano.
Lorenzo was thirty-four, impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal overcoat, his dark hair slicked back. He was swirling a glass of expensive scotch in one hand, while his other hand casually rested on the handle of a heavy tactical knife stuck into the wooden crate beside him.
Around him stood eight heavily armed mercenaries, wearing dark tactical gear and carrying suppressed submachine guns.
In the corner of the room, inside a heavy iron transport cage meant for wild livestock, lay Bruno.
The old mastiff was awake, but his body was weak. The sedative was still wearing off, making his heavy legs tremble whenever he tried to stand. His large, dark eyes were wide with confusion and pain, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps against the cold concrete floor.
One of Lorenzo’s men walked over to the cage and kicked the iron bars with his heavy boot.
CLANG!
Bruno flinched, letting out a low, pathetic whimper that vibrated in his broad chest.
Lorenzo laughed, taking a sip of his scotch. "Look at him. The great Adrian Moretti’s terrifying beast. Looks more like a rug than a killer."
"Boss," one of the mercenaries warned, checking his watch. "Moretti’s security team hasn't left Long Island. Our scouts say the estate is completely quiet. Should we call Miss Vivienne?"
"No," Lorenzo said smoothly. "Vivienne is playing her part. She's keeping him distracted with sad stories about the dog running away to die. By tomorrow morning, Adrian will be desperate. When I offer to 'help' him search the docks in exchange for the Long Island port deeds, he'll sign anything I put in front of him."
"And the dog?" the guard asked.
Lorenzo looked at the cage, a cold, cruel smirk touching his lips. "Once the deeds are signed? Put a bullet in his head and drop him in the bay. We can't leave evidence."
Before the guard could answer, the warehouse’s heavy steel sliding door exploded inward with a deafening screech of tearing metal.
CRASH!
A massive armored garbage truck smashed through the steel doors at forty miles an hour, pulverizing two crate stacks and showering the concrete floor with glass and splintered wood.
"Enemies!" a mercenary screamed, raising his weapon.
Before the men could take aim, every floodlight in the ceiling went dark as the warehouse power grid was severed from the outside.
Total, suffocating blackness swallowed the room.
Then came the sound.
Not gunfire. Not shouting.
The sound of four high-velocity tear gas canisters firing into the enclosed space.
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!
Thick, blinding chemical smoke billowed across the floor within seconds. The mercenaries began coughing hysterically, dropping their weapons as their eyes burned and their lungs seized.
Through the dense white smoke walked Adrian Moretti.
He wore a full tactical gas mask, a black Kevlar vest over his sweater, and held a customized suppressed shotgun in his right hand.
Beside him, moving like silent ghosts through the haze, were Marco and ten elite Moretti enforcers, all wearing night-vision goggles and gas masks.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
The silent shots echoed through the warehouse with rhythmic, lethal precision. One by one, Lorenzo’s mercenaries dropped to the concrete floor like sacks of wet flour.
Lorenzo screamed in terror, dropping his scotch glass as he scrambled backward in the dark, coughing hysterically from the tear gas. He reached blindly for his tactical knife, his eyes streaming with tears.
"Moretti!" Lorenzo shrieked into the smoke. "Adrian! Wait!"
A heavy boot stepped onto Lorenzo’s wrist, pinning his hand to the concrete with enough pressure to crack the bone.
Lorenzo screamed in agony.
Adrian reached down, grabbed Lorenzo by his slicked hair, and hauled him off the floor, slamming his back violently against the iron bars of Bruno’s cage.
Adrian removed his gas mask, letting the cool, smoky air hit his face. His dark eyes were devoid of any human empathy.
"You took my dog, Lorenzo," Adrian whispered directly into his ear.
Lorenzo coughed violently, blood and tear-gas fluid dripping from his nose. "Adrian... please! It was a business move! Just business! I didn't hurt him!"
Adrian didn't answer. He turned his head toward the cage.
Inside, Bruno had dragged his heavy body to the front bars. Despite the smoke, despite the pain in his hips, the old mastiff recognized his master's scent. He let out a soft, deep whimper, resting his broad, wrinkled snout against the iron wire.
Adrian reached through the bars with his gloved hand, gently patting the side of Bruno’s face.
"I'm here, boy," Adrian said softly, his voice instantly shifting into a tone of immense tenderness. "Daddy's here."
Bruno licked Adrian’s leather glove, his tail giving a single, slow thump against the floor.
Adrian looked back at Lorenzo. The cold, lethal darkness returned to his face instantly.
"Marco," Adrian commanded flatly.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Put Lorenzo inside the cage."
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Lorenzo’s eyes widened in absolute, paralyzing terror. "No! Adrian! No! You can't leave me in here! The gas—"
"Put him in the cage," Adrian repeated, unlocking the iron door and pulling Bruno gently out onto a soft wool blanket his men had brought. "And leave a bowl of water on the floor. Just out of his reach."
