Chapter 7 - The Confrontation at the Dockhouse
The bright, blinding halogen headlights of a high-topped medical transport van sliced through the thick harbor fog, illuminating the dark interior of the dockhouse.
Rossi’s guards shouted, pulling their handguns and pointing them at the vehicle as it ground to a halt twenty feet from the mahogany table.
The side door of the transport van slid open with a sharp, metallic crack.
A wheelchair ramp extended to the concrete floor.
Two men in crisp dark suits stepped out first, followed immediately by Norah Blake. She wore her dark tailored suit, an earpiece resting in her ear, holding a black leather medical briefcase.
Then, the wheelchair rolled down the ramp.
Sitting in the chair, dressed in a sharp, dark charcoal suit with a crisp white shirt, was Gideon Wolf.
His face was still thin, his cheekbones sharp beneath his pale skin, but his gray eyes burned with a lethal, terrifying intensity that made two of Rossi’s guards instinctively step backward.
The silence that fell over the dockhouse was absolute.
Vincenzo Rossi froze, his hand remaining suspended over his scotch glass, his face going completely gray.
“G-Gideon...?” Rossi stammered, his voice losing every shred of its previous authority. “You... you’re dead. The report from the estate said—”
“The report from the estate was written for you, Vincenzo,” Gideon’s deep, rough voice echoed clearly through the vast metal terminal.
Gideon raised a hand, resting his forearm on the armrest of his wheelchair as Norah rolled him smoothly up to the foot of the long mahogany table.
The five other syndicate bosses instantly stood up from their chairs, bowing their heads in deep, instinctual respect.
“Mr. Wolf,” one elderly boss stammered. “We... we were told you had passed.”
“I was close,” Gideon said smoothly, his eyes locking onto Rossi’s trembling frame. “I had a very stubborn infection. But fortunately, I had a security team that pays attention to detail.”
Gideon motioned to Norah.
Norah stepped forward, opened her black leather briefcase, and pulled out a heavy glass bottle filled with pale pink juice, along with a stack of signed confession documents and audio tapes from Chef Paul Renner.
She laid them directly on top of Rossi’s forged transfer deeds in the middle of the table.
“For three weeks, Vincenzo,” Gideon spoke, his voice ice-cold, “you paid my chef five thousand dollars a week to lace my morning drink with a concentrated citrus extract designed to interact with my prescription medication. You wanted my heart to stop without leaving a bullet hole.”
The five other syndicate bosses gasped, looking at Rossi with sudden, deep revulsion. In the Graybridge underworld, business disputes were settled with guns or knives. Using a sneaky, chemical assassination method through a man’s food was considered the ultimate act of cowardice.
“That’s a lie!” Rossi shrieked, backing away from the table. “He’s insane! He’s hallucinating from his illness! Kill him! Shoot him now!”
Rossi turned to his twenty armed guards, but not a single man raised his weapon.
The guards looked from Rossi to Gideon Wolf—the legendary boss who had returned from the dead—and slowly lowered their guns to their sides.
“Your men are smart, Vincenzo,” Gideon said quietly. “They know that if a single shot is fired in this room, my thirty snipers stationed on the container cranes outside will turn this dockhouse into a columbarium before you take your next breath.”
Rossi collapsed back into his chair, sweating profusely, his hands shaking violently as he looked around at the cold, silent faces of his fellow bosses.
“What... what do you want, Gideon?” Rossi whispered desperately.
May you like
Gideon looked at Arthur.
“Arthur,” Gideon said softly. “Take Mr. Rossi’s coat. He won't be needing it where he’s going.”
