Chapter 10 - THE BLEEDING LEDGER
Z
The docks on the east side of Boston smelled of salt, diesel, and rotting fish, a sharp contrast to the sanitized luxury of the Costanza estate. This was the beating heart of the syndicate’s logistics, the concrete veins through which millions of dollars in untaxed goods, weapons, and narcotics flowed into the city. It was also Vinnie 'The Razor' Moretti’s primary territory.
We arrived in a convoy of three armored SUVs, the tires crunching heavily against the wet gravel. I stepped out of the passenger side of the lead vehicle, wearing a tailored black trench coat, tactical boots, and a matching pair of leather gloves. The weight of the Glock 19 resting in my shoulder holster was a comforting, familiar anchor. Behind me, eight of Vincent’s most loyal and heavily armed enforcers stepped out into the freezing drizzle, their faces stony and entirely unsympathetic.
Vincent emerged from the backseat, leaning slightly on a silver-tipped cane to compensate for his injured side, though he carried the impairment as if it were a royal scepter rather than a crutch. He didn't look like a man who had been shot less than forty-eight hours ago. He looked like the Devil come to collect his due.
"Warehouse Four," Vincent commanded, his voice slicing through the biting wind. "Lock down the perimeter. Nobody gets in, and absolutely nobody gets out."
The enforcers fanned out with brutal efficiency. I walked by Vincent's side, my eyes scanning the shipping containers and the shadows between the massive cranes. We approached the heavy rolling doors of Warehouse Four. Two of Moretti’s men were standing guard, drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups. The moment they saw Vincent, the color drained from their faces, and the coffee hit the concrete.
"Mr. Costanza," one of them stammered, his hand twitching toward his waistband, unsure whether to draw his weapon or beg for his life.
I didn't give him the chance to decide. I stepped forward, closing the distance in two rapid strides, and drove the heel of my boot into his kneecap. The bone snapped with a sickening crack. As he crumpled, screaming, I drew my weapon and pressed the barrel against the forehead of the second guard.
"Open the door," I whispered, my voice completely devoid of emotion.
The guard, trembling violently, punched the code into the keypad. The heavy metal doors ground upward, revealing the cavernous interior of the warehouse. It was packed with wooden crates, forklifts, and the chaotic noise of thirty men unloading a shipment of illegal electronics. But the noise died the absolute second Vincent Costanza walked over the threshold.
The silence was deafening, broken only by the whimpering of the guard with the shattered knee outside. I kept my gun raised, my eyes tracking the hands of every man in the room.
"Where is Vinnie?" Vincent asked, his voice echoing off the corrugated steel ceiling.
No one answered. The dockworkers looked at each other, terrified.
Suddenly, a door to a glass-paneled office suspended above the warehouse floor burst open. Vinnie Moretti, a short, balding man in a sweating designer suit, scrambled out onto the metal catwalk. He was clutching a thick, leather-bound ledger to his chest like a life preserver.
"Vincent!" Moretti shouted, his voice cracking with panic. "Vincent, please! You have to listen to me! I was just a middleman! Julian made me do it!"
"Come down here, Vinnie," Vincent said calmly, though the quietness of his tone was more terrifying than a scream. "Let’s have a chat."
Moretti looked at the stairs, then at the heavily armed men surrounding his workers, and finally at me, the 'maid' who had butchered Julian's elite guards. He knew he was trapped. Trembling, he slowly descended the metal stairs, clutching the ledger so tightly his knuckles were white.
As he reached the floor, he fell to his knees in front of Vincent, holding the book up in a desperate offering. "This is it! The accounts! The transfers! It wasn't just Julian, Vincent! It was the Lupertazzi family from New York! They wired Julian ten million to fund the coup. The routing numbers are all in here! I was just keeping the books!"
Vincent didn't take the ledger. He just stared down at Moretti with eyes like black ice. "You kept the books for a man who tried to put me in the ground, Vinnie. You opened my city to New York."
"I can help you!" Moretti sobbed, tears cutting tracks through the grease on his face. "I know their contacts! I know how they're moving the money! I swear on my mother’s life, Vincent, I’m loyal to you now!"
Vincent turned his head slowly, looking at me. "Micah. Do you believe him?"
I looked at Moretti, a pathetic, treacherous rat who would sell out his own blood to save his skin. My father had trusted men like Vinnie, and he had ended up in a shallow grave in the Sonoran Desert.
"I believe he's a liability," I said coldly.
Vincent nodded once, a barely perceptible motion. He turned and began to walk out of the warehouse, his cane clicking against the concrete. "Take the ledger," Vincent ordered without looking back. "And clean up the mess."
Moretti’s eyes went wide with absolute horror. "No! No, Vincent, please!"
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I stepped forward, snatching the heavy ledger from his trembling hands. I didn't say a word. I just raised the Glock, aimed right between his pleading eyes, and squeezed the trigger. The gunshot echoed like thunder in the cavernous room. Moretti fell backward, silent forever.
I turned to the terrified dockworkers, who were frozen in absolute shock. "Warehouse Four now belongs directly to the Boss," I announced, my voice hard and clear. "Get back to work."
