Chapter 6 - BLOOD ON THE CONCRETE
The side door of Berth 42 was unlocked, left slightly ajar by a guard who had stepped inside to witness the historic coronation of Marco Moretti.
Inside, the warehouse smelled of salt water, diesel exhaust, and cold iron. In the center of the vast concrete floor, bathed beneath yellow sodium work lights, twenty men in heavy wool coats stood in a semi-circle around a makeshift conference table. At the center sat Marco Moretti, wearing an immaculate camel-hair coat, a glass of champagne in his hand, smiling broadly at the assembled capos.
On the table lay the contracts for the transatlantic shipping lanes—the lifeblood of the Moretti dynasty.
"...and with Gabriel’s tragic passing this morning," Marco’s voice resonated through the steel rafters, smooth and theatrical, "we must honor his legacy by looking forward. The Donati alliance guarantees our supply chains. Sign the papers, gentlemen. Let us bury my dear cousin and claim what is ours."
An older capo with silver hair frowned, his pen hovering over the document. "Dr. Hale confirmed the death? I want to see the coroner's certificate, Marco. Gabriel was tough as iron. A fall from a vehicle doesn't kill a man like that."
"Gabriel was a cripple!" Marco snapped, the mask slipping, revealing the venomous ambition underneath. "He was drooling in his bed, rotting from the inside out! He was weak! And the Moretti family does not follow weak men!"
"Is that right, cousin?"
The low, resonant voice tore through the cavernous room like a lightning strike.
Every head snapped toward the shadows near the loading dock.
I stepped into the light first, bracing Gabriel’s left side, my shoulder wedged firmly beneath his arm, my hip locked against his to bear his weight. Gabriel stood tall, his ruined shirt stained with blood, his face pale but his eyes burning with the wrath of an awakened god. In his right hand, the black Five-seveN hung at his side, leveled straight at the center of the table.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Pens dropped. Men backed away, their hands hovering near their holsters, their faces draining of all color.
"G-Gabriel...?" Marco stammered, dropping his champagne glass. The crystal shattered on the concrete, the fizzing wine spreading like water. "You... you're dead! Hale said—"
"Hale is tied to a radiator in my bedroom with a crushed knee," Gabriel said, taking a slow, deliberate step forward, relying on me for every inch of balance. I moved with him, perfectly synchronized, matching his stride, refusing to let him falter by a single millimeter. "And the motorized needles your friends in Zurich built into my bed have been extracted."
A collective gasp rippled through the assembled capos.
"Needles?" the silver-haired elder asked, his eyes narrowing in furious disgust. "Marco... you poisoned him in his sickbed? Like a dog?"
"He’s lying!" Marco screamed, panic cracking his voice. He reached into his coat for his gun. "Kill him! Both of them! Now!"
None of the capos moved. They were hardened mobsters, but patricide by poison was a violation of the old Sicilian code that none would stomach. Only Marco’s two personal bodyguards drew their weapons.
Gabriel fired twice before their barrels cleared leather.
The two bodyguards collapsed instantly. Gabriel didn't flinch. He took another step forward, dragging his deadened foot, his grip on my shoulder tightening as he leveled his weapon directly at Marco’s forehead.
"You sat at my table," Gabriel whispered, the warehouse echoing with every word. "You ate my bread. You kissed my cheek while your machines pumped venom into my spine."
"Gabriel, please!" Marco fell to his knees, weeping, his hands raised in pathetic supplication. "It was the Donatis! They forced me! They said they’d destroy us if we didn't give up the ports!"
"The Moretti family does not follow weak men," Gabriel echoed Marco’s own words, his voice utterly devoid of warmth. "And we do not tolerate traitors."
A single shot cracked through the warehouse.
Marco crumpled to the concrete floor and lay still.
Gabriel slowly lowered the smoking weapon. The effort, the blood loss, and the lingering toxins finally overwhelmed his iron constitution. His knees gave out.
I caught him before he hit the ground, sinking to my knees on the cold concrete and cradling his massive shoulders in my lap.
The capos stood frozen, watching the young woman in wrinkled scrubs holding their legendary boss in her arms. Slowly, the silver-haired elder took off his fedora, stepped forward, and bowed his head slightly toward Gabriel—and then, with deep, undeniable respect, toward me.
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"The boss needs a surgeon," the elder said softly. "Our best."
"No," Gabriel gasped, reaching up with his bloody fingers and cupping the side of my face, his eyes shining with an emotion that shattered every wall he had ever built. "I already have the best."
