Chapter 8 - Confrontation in the Dark
Inside the warehouse, towering stacks of rotting wooden pallets and rusted shipping containers created a labyrinth of deep shadows. A single halogen work light had been rigged to a portable generator near the center of the concrete floor, casting a harsh, sickly glare over the space.
Standing directly beneath the light, rubbing his hands together against the damp cold, was Vincent Russo.
He looked older, thinner, and decidedly more desperate than the polished lieutenant who used to sit at my dining table. His expensive Italian wool coat was stained at the cuffs, and his eyes darted nervously toward every shadow.
"Hale," Vincent called out, his voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls as I stepped out from the darkness into the circle of halogen light. "I knew you'd come. You always did have a soft spot for unfinished business."
"Vincent," I said, stopping ten feet away from him, my hands resting casually in my coat pockets. "You look like hell. New Jersey must not agree with your refined palate."
Vincent sneered, though I could see the sweat beading on his forehead despite the freezing air. "Spare me the courtroom drama, Daniel. You got my ping. You know I have buyers who want those Russian ledgers. Hand over the disk, and I walk out of here. We pretend this whole messy divorce never happened."
"Divorce?" I let out a cold, humorless chuckle. "You didn't file for divorce, Vincent. You tried to sell my entire operation to a foreign syndicate while my men ended up in body bags."
"Business is business!" Vincent snapped, taking a defensive step back, his hand twitching toward his coat pocket. "You got too comfortable up in that stone estate! You forgot how the streets work!"
"No, Vincent," a new voice echoed sharply through the cavernous warehouse. "You forgot who owned the streets."
Vincent froze.
From the shadows behind a stack of shipping containers, Maria stepped into the light. Her face was a mask of cold, unyielding fury.
May you like
Vincent’s jaw dropped. His eyes bulged as he stared at her, struggling to connect the quiet domestic housekeeper from my estate with the woman standing before him. "Maria? What the hell is she doing here, Daniel? Are you bringing maids to a hit now?"
"She isn't here as a maid, Vincent," I said, stepping closer as my three enforcers emerged from the dark perimeter behind him, cutting off every possible exit route. "She’s here as Thomas's widow."
