Chapter 8 - A Spectre in the Fog
Z
The peace in Stamford lasted for eight months before the ghost of my former life decided to walk back into it.
It was a Tuesday afternoon in late May. The air was thick with the scent of blooming lilac, and the sky had turned the bruised purple that precedes a coastal storm. I was in the barn behind the farmhouse, repairing the broken hinge of a wooden tractor trailer, when the sharp, distinctive sound of a high-end engine echoed up the long gravel driveway.
It wasn't Marco’s utilitarian sedan, nor was it the local grocery delivery van. It was a low, aggressive rumble that belonged strictly to the streets of Manhattan.
I set the wrench down on the workbench, wiped my hands on an old rag, and stepped out into the cool air. A pristine, black Cadillac Escalade with heavily tinted windows sat idling in the gravel yard. The driver’s side door opened, and a tall, slender man in a bespoke charcoal suit stepped out.
He didn't wear a coat, despite the chill wind. He wore a silver lapel pin shaped like a falcon—the mark of Lorenzo Rossi.
Lorenzo was thirty-four, two years younger than me, and the undisputed kingpin of the Philadelphia docks. When I was dismantling the Moretti family, Lorenzo had stayed neutral, watching from the sidelines like a patient predator. We had a tacit agreement: New York stayed out of Philly, and Philly stayed out of the Sound.
"Dominic," Lorenzo said, adjusting his silk tie as he walked toward me. His leather shoes crunched softly on the stone. "You're a hard man to track down. I had to pay a retired federal marshal twenty grand just to get this address."
"Then you wasted twenty grand, Lorenzo," I said, my voice flat, holding my position near the barn door. "Because the man you're looking for doesn't live here."
Lorenzo stopped ten feet away, eyeing my mud-stained boots and flannel shirt with a mixture of amusement and genuine disbelief. "Look at you. The ghost of Brooklyn, playing farmer in Connecticut. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I’d have thought old man Lucchese was lying when he told me you surrendered the throne."
"I didn't surrender anything," I replied. "I retired. There's a difference. State your business and get off my land."
Lorenzo’s smile faded, replaced by a cold, sharp intensity. "I didn't drive three hours through interstate traffic to reminisce, Dominic. I came because your cousin Adrian is back."
A cold stillness settled in my gut, sharper than the May wind. "Adrian is in Palermo."
"Adrian was in Palermo," Lorenzo corrected smoothly. "Until three weeks ago. It seems your exiled cousin didn't care much for the quiet life in Sicily. He made a deal with the Russian syndicates out of Brighton Beach—the Bratva under Kazakhov. They’re moving shipments through the ports you abandoned, and Adrian is providing them with all the old Moretti codes, wire routing numbers, and safehouse addresses."
"That's Marco's problem now," I said coldly, though my chest tightened. "Marco runs the legitimate security firm that took over those sectors."
"Marco is currently in an intensive care unit at Bellevue Hospital," Lorenzo said flatly.
Everything inside me stopped. The wind in the oak trees seemed to freeze.
"What did you say?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave.
May you like
"Two nights ago," Lorenzo continued, watching my reaction closely. "A car bomb went off outside his office in Queens. Marco survived, but he lost his left leg below the knee. Three of his men are dead. Kazakhov and Adrian are cleaning house, Dominic. They’re wiping out every loyalist who helped you tear down the family structure. And do you know who Adrian’s next target is?"
Lorenzo stepped closer, lowering his voice. "He knows about the nurse, Dominic. He knows about the little girl."
