Chapter 42 #2
The place smells like wet concrete and old oil.
Fluorescents buzz overhead, two of them strobing at the ends like a skipping heart.
Ferro kneels in the center of a chalked loading bay line, wrists tied behind a steel post. His face is already a mess—split lip, swelling around one eye, a smear of dirt across his cheek where Vito ground him down with a boot.
“Please,” he says again, voice frayed. “Please, I didn’t— I didn’t know—”
Vito shifts, and Ferro flinches so hard the post rattles.
“You didn’t know it was a setup?” Luca asks, voice scarily calm. That’s how you know he’s close to the edge. “You didn’t know the plan was to murder my brother and my son? Or you didn’t know we’d find you all the way out in Phoenix?”
Ferro shakes his head fast.
“Answer him,” Nico says. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to.
“I thought it was a test— I swear to God— I thought—” Ferro’s breath hitches. He looks to me like I might be the reasonable one. Bad guess.
Giovanni steps in until the toe of his shoe touches the paint line. “Who hired you to set us up?”
Silence. Not brave—calculating. He’s trying to price the cost of lying against the cost of telling the truth.
Vito takes half a step forward, a crowbar in his hand. “You heard the question.”
“I— I got a call,” Ferro blurts, eyes flicking from Vito’s hand back to Gio. “Guy said there was a job. Simple. You rent out the warehouse, you stage the pallets, you get us in the door, you walk. That’s what I do, I line up spaces. You know this.”
“Who,” Luca says.
“No names. He used a voice thing. It was—”
Vito moves, and Ferro jerks like he’s been shocked. “A name,” Vito says.
Ferro swallows. Sweat slides through grime along his temple. “He called himself Rook,” he manages. “Like chess. Rook. He said the client wanted distance. Said it was a test of ‘discipline.’ That’s the word he used. Discipline.”
“The client,” I repeat. “Which client?”
“I don’t know,” Ferro insists, too quickly. “I swear to God.”
Giovanni tips his head. “Payment?”
Ferro’s gaze skitters. “Half up front in crypto. Rest on delivery.”
“Phone,” I say.
He licks his lips. “Phone’s wiped.”
Nico reaches behind, pulls the cheap Android from the back of Ferro’s waistband, and tosses it to me.
“I wiped—” Ferro trembles.
“Can you crack it?” Luca asks.
Usually, technology is Antonio’s job, but I know my way around.
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” I say, slipping it into my pocket.
“Who’s Rook?” Giovanni asks.
Ferro’s breath shudders. “I never met him. Burner number. He used Signal voice notes. Disappeared after.”
“You rented a riverfront warehouse and stage pallets without seeing a face?” I say. “Made enemies of us? Do you understand who we are?”
Ferro’s eyes slide shut. I watch his throat move. When he opens them again, he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at Vito. Another bad choice.
Vito takes a step forward, and Ferro flinches again.
“I have a shell,” he says. “A shell. I have a—”
“The name,” Vito says.
“Northshore Logistics,” he chokes out.
Giovanni looks at me. “You?” he asks quietly.
I shake my head. “Could be a Russo shell.”
“Russos been quiet since the don’s brother had that unfortunate accident,” Giovanni says wryly.
“Why would they start up now?” Luca asks. “Leonardo is a lot of things, but he isn’t stupid.”
He turns his attention back to the rat tied up on the ground. “Where’s this Rook now?”
“Gone,” Ferro says. “He told me after the thing went sideways to disappear. He said there’d be cleanup.”
“Cleanup like what?” Vito says. “Like putting bullets in my uncle?”
“No!” It comes out high. “No, no— I don’t— I don’t do guns.
I line up spaces. I make introductions. I thought—” He catches himself.
“I thought it was about embarrassing you. That’s all anyone ever wants.
You make a guy look slow once and the whispers start.
That’s what ‘Rook’ said. ‘Put them on their heels.’ That was the phrase. ”
“You expect me to believe you thought an ambush at close range was a publicity hit?” Luca asks.
He has no answer.
Giovanni changes the angle. “How’d he find you?”
Ferro stares at the floor. “I did a job last winter,” he mutters. “Rented a meat locker in Jersey for a night. The guy who paid me got my number to these people. Said if I wanted bigger money, this is where I call. He was— he was Italian. He had a star tattoo by his ear.”
I file it. “Name.”
“He went by ‘Glass.’” Ferro swallows. “He didn’t give me a last.”
Nico flicks a look at Vito. There’s recognition there. Vito nods once. “He runs errands,” he says. “Rents vans, opens doors, takes a cut.”
“One of Russo’s?” Giovanni asks.
“Free agent,” Nico says. “You got money, that’s all he needs.”
I crouch so Ferro has no choice but to look at me. “When’s your next touchpoint?”
He blinks. “What?”
“With Rook. Or with anyone. When were you supposed to check in and say ‘job done’ and collect your bones?”
“I— there isn’t—” He stops. He realizes I already know. “Tomorrow,” he whispers. “I ping ‘OK’ and I get a time. There’s a drop. That’s all I know.”
“Where.” Not a question.
He hesitates.
Vito’s shoe creaks. “Where.”
“Pier 11,” Ferro says fast. “Public side, not the dock. The old ferry kiosk, north end. There’s a bench. You sit, you send the second emoji string from a fresh number, and a guy in a gray jacket puts a paper cup next to you. That’s it.”
“What time?” Nico asks.
“Window opens at six,” he answers. “Closes at eight. They said if I miss it, I miss it. That’s it.”
I stand and smooth my shirt.
“I think that’s all we’re going to get,” Vito says.
“Yeah, yeah,” Ferro says. “That’s all I know. I swear to God I didn’t know they’d shoot first.”
“You knew exactly what you were doing,” Luca says softly.
“I didn’t pull the trigger,” Ferro says. It’s the last of his defiance, small and desperate. “I never touched a gun.”
“A bullet’s a bullet,” Nico says.
Ferro starts crying again. Not pretty tears. Wet, open fear.
I turn to Luca, and he gives a small nod.
A smirk crosses Vito’s face, and he cracks his knuckles, the crowbar leaning against his shoulder, held in the crook of his arm.
He and Nico take a step forward while Luca, Giovanni, and I turn and walk away.
The sobs get louder.
“No, please. I told you everything I know,” he pleads. “Please, I didn’t know.”
Luca catches my eye and gives the slightest nod. That’s all it takes. We don’t stay to hear him break.
We leave the garage together, the three of us standing outside the warehouse, ignoring the screams and thuds from inside as we discuss this new information.
What happens next belongs to Nico and Vito.
That’s the line Luca drew years ago. I keep the family legitimate. Contracts. Courtrooms. Clean hands. My nephews handle what can never see daylight.
“Looks like someone needs a lesson,” Giovanni says. “Coming after the Family like that. They’re either cocky or stupid.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Luca says. “Either way, they’re dead.”
Hours later, we’re back at the house where Nico and Vito join us, looking somewhat the worse for wear.
Luca pours a drink he doesn’t touch. I stand by the window with Giovanni, watching the city pulse below, waiting.
Nico speaks first. “He gave us a name.”
Vito doesn’t waste words. “We found him.”
I turn from the glass. “And?”
“Dead,” Nico says. “No witnesses. No loose ends.”
Luca nods once. Not satisfaction—confirmation.
It’s finished. Not ignored. Not postponed. The man who thought he could set us up and live long enough to enjoy it is gone. The message is delivered, even if no one knows it’s been sent.