Chapter 6 - The Night of the Coup
Saturday night arrived under a blanket of thick, suffocating fog that rolled off the Graybridge river.
At Freight Terminal 3 on the edge of the harbor, the air smelled of salt water, diesel exhaust, and wet rust. Huge iron shipping containers were stacked three stories high, creating a artificial canyon around the central dockhouse.
Inside the dockhouse, a long mahogany table had been set up under industrial hanging lamps.
Seated around the table were six men—the senior bosses of the Graybridge syndicate who controlled the city’s illegal freight, extortion, gambling, and shipping routes.
At the head of the table sat Vincenzo Rossi.
Rossi was a broad, silver-haired man in his late fifties, wearing an expensive camel-hair coat and rings on four of his fingers. He was casually slicing an apple with a pearl-handled folding knife, a glass of scotch sitting beside his elbow.
To his right sat Arthur Finch.
Arthur looked exhausted, his black suit rumpled, his face drawn tight with grief. He sat alone, without his usual security guards behind him.
“It’s nine o'clock, Arthur,” Rossi said smoothly, taking a bite of his apple. “The council meeting was called for eight-thirty. Where is Gideon?”
The five other bosses looked at Arthur. The tension in the room was sharp enough to cut with a blade.
Arthur slowly raised his head. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot.
“Gideon passed away at 4:00 AM this morning,” Arthur said, his voice flat and dead. “The doctors couldn't stop the kidney failure.”
A quiet, collective murmur rippled through the room. Several bosses shook their heads, while others exchanged quick, calculating glances.
Vincenzo Rossi set his pearl-handled knife down on the table with a quiet click. He didn't look surprised. A slow, triumphant grin spread across his heavy face.
“A tragedy,” Rossi said, though his voice lacked a single drop of genuine sympathy. “Gideon Wolf was a great man. He ran this harbor for fifteen years. But the sea doesn't wait for dead men, Arthur.”
Rossi stood up, sliding a thick manila folder across the mahogany table toward the center of the room.
“Before Gideon died,” Rossi announced loudly, looking around at the gathered bosses, “he recognized that his health was failing. He signed over his fifty-one percent controlling interest in the Graybridge Freight Union to the Rossi family. I have the signed transfer deeds right here, witnessed by his private physician.”
Arthur looked at the folder, then raised his eyes to glare at Rossi.
“That’s a forgery, Vincenzo,” Arthur said quietly. “Gideon never signed anything.”
“Who are you to question it?” Rossi snapped, his voice dropping into a dangerous rumble. “You’re just a second-in-command without a master, Arthur. Gideon is cold in a morgue. His empire is finished. If you accept my leadership tonight, I’ll let you keep your penthouse and your car. If you fight me... you’ll be joining Gideon in the river by midnight.”
Twenty armed guards stationed around the perimeter of the dockhouse quietly unholstered their weapons, their eyes locking onto Arthur.
Arthur didn't flinch. He slowly pulled his wrist up and looked at his watch.
“He’s not in a morgue, Vincenzo,” Arthur said softly.
May you like
Rossi frowned. “What did you say?”
Suddenly, the massive steel roll-up doors of Freight Terminal 3 began to creak upward with a deafening industrial rattle.
