Chapter 7 - The Boardroom Coup
The old grain terminal by the canal was a monolithic ruin of gray concrete and rusted iron, its towering silos rising against the dark morning sky like the pillars of a forgotten cathedral. The air smelled of stagnant river water, damp grain dust, and the heavy oil of the barges that plied the canal in the dark.
Enzo Lucchese sat in a folding chair in the center of the empty loading bay, his tailored coat buttoned to the chin, a long, thin cigar smoldering between his fingers. Behind him stood his four enforcers, their hands tucked into their leather coats, their eyes scanning the dark catwalks above with silent, disciplined focus.
"You’re late, Alessandro," Enzo said, his voice carrying the dry, raspy accent of the Brooklyn docks. He didn't stand up. He took a slow drag of his cigar, his eyes narrowing as Alessandro stepped out of the shadows.
"I was securing my house, Enzo," Alessandro said, stopping ten feet from the folding chair. He wasn't holding a weapon. His hands were tucked into his pockets, his wool coat damp from the freezing sleet outside. "I had to make sure the rats were completely cleared from the kitchen."
"Filippo was a fool," Enzo said, spitting a shred of tobacco onto the wet concrete. "He wanted to play the boss but he didn't have the stomach for the blood. But the thallium shipments... they belong to the Lucchese family, Alessandro. We paid for those containers. We paid for the custom clearances. You don't get to seize our inventory because your cousin was clumsy."
"The thallium was shipped through Duca ports, Enzo," Alessandro said. "Which means it belongs to me. And if your family wants it back, the price is twenty million dollars, paid directly into the Duca family trust."
Enzo laughed, a dry, rattling sound that echoed through the empty silo. "Twenty million? You think you’re in a position to negotiate, Alessandro? We have three of your shipping vessels currently held at the port in Newark. If those ships don't clear by Monday, your family’s credit lines will be frozen by the Swiss banks."
"The Swiss banks are already auditing your family's offshore accounts, Enzo," Alessandro said, a cold, sharp smile finally touching his lips. "I sent the Cicero manifests to the federal prosecutors in New York last night. The same manifests Carlos Alvarez died to protect. As of nine o'clock this morning, your family’s shipping permits have been revoked by the maritime commission."
Enzo’s smile died. He stood up from his chair, his hands falling to his sides, his eyes wide with a sudden, freezing rage. "You... you rat. You gave our books to the feds?"
"I gave them the truth," Alessandro said. "And the truth is that the Lucchese family is finished in this city."
Enzo reached toward his coat, his hand instinctively going for the holster beneath his arm.
But he stopped.
From the dark catwalks above, the sharp, metallic clicks of twelve automatic weapons sounded in unison, the red laser sights of Franco’s enforcers instantly cutting through the dark until every chest at the table had a red dot dancing across it.
"Don't do it, Enzo," Alessandro said, his voice dropping to a whisper that made the cold air in the silo seem to freeze. "I’ve spent twenty years surviving your family’s poison. I’m not about to let a cheap cigar enforcer from Brooklyn change my schedule."
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Enzo slowly raised his hands, his cigar dropping from his fingers to hiss and die in the puddle of dirty water on the concrete. "You're a dead man, Duca. The commission won't let this stand."
"The commission has already signed the reorganization papers, Enzo," Alessandro said, turning on his heel and walking toward the exit. "Franco, clear the bay. And make sure the canal is deep enough."
