Chapter 26
GIANNI
The Red Hook Container Terminal looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in years. Sea salt hangs heavy in the air, and the dock cranes are splattered with rust.
But I’m not here for sightseeing; I’m here for business.
Fifty-six years old, built like a bouncer—thick through the chest and shoulders, a neck that seems to emerge directly from his collarbone without bothering with a jawline.
Silver hair swept back from a broad, florid face.
He's wearing a camel overcoat over a dark suit, no tie, a gold pinky ring that catches the light of the sun hanging low over the Hudson.
Marino has always reminded me of an old bull, powerful and stubborn and very territorial. And I’ve spent the last fifteen years keeping him in check.
Spackman stays with the car at the pier entrance. I glance over my shoulder and give him a nod as I continue toward Marino.
"Gianni." Marino straightens as I approach, spreading his arms in expansive, theatrical warmth, smoke drifting upward from his cigar in a small billow. "It's been too long.”
“Good to see you, David.”
He scoffs, shaking his head. “Almost two goddamn decades we’ve known each other and I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve told you it’s Dave.” He snorts in amusement. “Then again, I suppose I should be happy you’ve stopped calling me Marino.”
I glance around. “Place is looking rough.”
He shrugs. “Little rust never stopped me from making money. Besides, the second I remodel anything I’ll have the IRS sniffing up my ass.” He nods. “Come, walk with me."
We walk along the pier. The harbor stretches out to our left, gray-green water chopping against the concrete pylons. A container ship is being unloaded in the middle distance, the cranes moving like oversized, grazing animals. Behind us, the Manhattan skyline cuts against a white, morning sky.
"I'll keep this brief," I say. "The FBI is in motion, and a grand jury is convening in six days. And your moves on the union contracts and the Jersey delivery routes are creating exactly the kind of noise that draws federal attention."
"My moves?" Marino takes a pull on his cigar, releases the smoke slowly. "I'm a businessman, Gianni. I pursue opportunities. If your operation can't hold its contracts, that’s not my concern.”
"Don't play games with me, David."
"Who's playing?" He stops walking and turns to face me with an expression that's all innocence.
"I've been in this business longer than you have.
I know how the table works, and I know how the votes work.
And I know that right now, you're standing in front of me because you're worried. Not about me—about yourself."
“I’m here to warn you. If the Feds come for me, they come for all of us. You think a RICO investigation stops at one name? You think Dawson and his team are going to indict me and then pack up and go home?"
"Dawson." He lets the name hang in the air. "The new agent. Chicago transfer. Aggressive young man."
"You know him?"
"I know of him." He ashes the cigar with a tap of his meaty index finger.
"He's making a lot of noise. But noise is all it is, Gianni.
The grand jury won't indict. Your lawyers are too good; your insulation is too deep.
You'll walk out of that hearing the same way you've walked out of every hearing for the last fifteen years. Clean."
“You seem certain.”
He shrugs. The gesture is far too casual for the situation. A man as invested in the Camorra as Marino is shouldn’t be dismissing the possibility of a RICO indictment with a shrug. Something like that could bring everything crashing down.
He should be sweating. Instead, he's standing on a pier in Red Hook smoking a cigar like a man without a care in the world. Which tells me everything I need to know.
"Relax, my friend." Marino puts a hand on my shoulder in a too-familiar sort of way. "The table is solid, and the families are united. Whatever happens with the grand jury, we weather it together. That's how it's always been."
"That's how it's always been," I repeat.
He smiles, big and broad and fake as hell. “Now,” Marino says, “it’s morning, and one of my boys just brought breakfast. Why don’t we catch up properly over a little coffee and bagel?”
“Some other time.”
He laughs. “It’s always some other time. Take care, Gianni.”
Another clap on my shoulder and he’s off. He tosses the stub of his cigar into the river, chuckling to himself as if there’s a joke only he knows the punchline to.
Moments later, I’m back at my car, pulling the door open. Spackman reads my face as I slide into the passenger seat.
"He knows about Dawson," I say.
"More than he should?"
"He said his name like they've already met."
Spackman starts the engine. We pull away from the pier, and in the side mirror, I watch Marino raise his hand in a lazy farewell salute.
He's not worried about the grand jury because he already knows the outcome. He's not worried about federal scrutiny because he's already made his deal. And the deal isn't with any of the other families in the FBI’s crosshairs.
The deal is with Lance Dawson.
I don't have proof yet, but I have instinct, and my instinct has kept me alive longer than proof ever has.
No one can be trusted. Not Marino, not Theresa, not the attorneys, not the walls of my own building. The only people I trust are Spackman and the woman sleeping in my bed who's been running from the same man I'm about to go to war with.
The clock is ticking. Six days until the grand jury. I need a different kind of plan.
“Where to?” Spackman asks.
“Meridian Group HQ. Time to pay Kylie Franks a visit.”