CHAPTER 27 TOMMYS DISAPPEARANCE #3
"Worse. He's wearing a badge." Dario shoved him against the brick wall, checking the street. Still clear. "You ever hear of a cop named Marsh?"
Tommy paled. "That narc from the 8th Precinct? But he—"
"Retired last year? Funny how that works." Dario pulled out his phone, thumbed a preset. "Ez. Burn the warehouse on 43rd. The one with the green door." A pause. "Yes, the one with the photos." He hung up before Ez could argue.
Tommy's fists clenched. "I didn't know, I swear—"
"Save it." Dario yanked him forward as headlights swept the pier entrance. "We move."
They ducked behind a dumpster as an unmarked Crown Vic rolled to a stop. Two figures stepped out, silhouettes sharp with holstered weapons. Dario counted heartbeats—three, four—then nudged Tommy toward the service tunnel.
The kid froze. "They'll see us."
"They will if you keep staring." Dario shoved him again, harder. "Move your feet or lose them."
Tommy stumbled forward, but not fast enough. A beam of light sliced across the alley.
"NYPD! Freeze!"
Dario didn't hesitate. He fired two shots into the Crown Vic's windshield, the retort echoing off concrete. Glass exploded. The feds dove for cover, shouting into radios.
Tommy gaped. "You shot at—"
"Distraction." Dario grabbed his collar, hauling him into the tunnel. The metal door clanged shut behind them, sealing them in damp darkness. Somewhere ahead, water dripped like a ticking clock.
Eleven minutes left.
Tommy panted beside him. "What now?"
Dario wiped his prints off the Glock and pressed it into Tommy's shaking hands. "You ditch this where they'll find it. Then you disappear."
The kid's fingers closed around the grip. "For how long?"
"Until I say otherwise." Dario turned, already calculating which favors to call in. The feds would trace the gun to a dead cartel lieutenant in Queens. Enough doubt to buy time.
One problem solved.
A new one taking shape in the silence between them—Tommy's loyalty had a price tag now, and Dario just added another zero.
Tommy's knuckles whitened around the steering wheel as the car idled outside the warehouse. The address Dario gave him was wrong—this was Marsh territory. The weight of the Glock pressed against his ribs, a familiar comfort.
"You're late," Dario said, sliding into the passenger seat. The scent of bergamot and gun oil clung to him.
Tommy kept his eyes on the warehouse. "You said it was on 12th."
"Changed my mind."
The lie sat between them like a live wire. Tommy had seen the blueprints. Knew exactly why Dario wanted him here. The Marsh crew had been skimming from their shipments. And Tommy—Tommy had been asking too many questions about it.
Dario lit a cigarette. "You ever hear the one about the dog who kept digging under the fence?"
Tommy's jaw tightened. "What's the punchline?"
"Owner buried him on the other side."
The warehouse door creaked open. Daniel Marsh stepped into the amber glow of the streetlight, his shadow stretching long across the asphalt.
Tommy's hand moved toward his waistband.
Dario caught his wrist. "No."
"I can fix this."
"You're not crossing that line tonight." Dario's grip didn't tighten, didn't waver. That was worse.
Tommy yanked free. "They're stealing from us!"
"And you're stealing from me." Dario exhaled smoke. "Every time you act without asking."
A phone buzzed. Dario checked the screen—Ezra's code for compromise—and tossed it onto the dash.
Tommy stared at the warehouse. At Marsh laughing with his crew. At the easy target he wasn't allowed to touch.
Dario crushed his cigarette. "Drive."
The engine roared to life. Tommy peeled away from the curb, tires screaming. In the rearview, Marsh's grin faded as he recognized the car.
One block. Two.
Dario rolled down the window. "Next left."
Tommy took the turn too fast. The alley was narrow, poorly lit. He braked hard.
Dario got out. Walked around to the driver's side. Opened the door.
"Keys."
Tommy handed them over. Watched as Dario dropped them down a storm drain.
"Walk home," Dario said. "Think about who owns your loyalty."
The new detail: The storm drain had fresh red paint around its edges—someone's territorial marker.
Tommy opened his mouth. Closed it.
Dario was already gone.
The red paint gleamed wet under the flickering alley light. Tommy crouched, fingertips hovering just above the storm drain’s edge. Not Marsh’s color—this was the Kovac crew. Their territory started three blocks east. Dario hadn’t just taken the car; he’d stranded Tommy in a kill box.
Footsteps echoed off the brick walls. Too light to be Dario’s.
Tommy straightened slowly, hand drifting toward his waistband again. The Glock was still there.
A shadow detached itself from the fire escape. "Lost, Moretti?"
Nina Kovac. She leaned against a dumpster, arms crossed. No visible weapon, but her right sleeve bulged near the wrist. Wire garrote, probably.
Tommy forced a grin. "Just admiring the artwork." He nudged the storm drain with his shoe.
"Uh-huh." She tilted her head. "Heard you had a disagreement with your boss."
"Who’s talking?"
"Daniel Marsh." Nina pushed off the dumpster. "Offered me five grand to make sure you didn’t walk out of this alley."
Tommy’s pulse kicked. Marsh must’ve called the second he recognized the car. "Dario know you’re here?"
She paused. Kovacs didn’t move against the Morettis without clearance. Not unless they wanted a war.
Tommy pressed the advantage. "Check your phone."
Nina’s eyes narrowed, but she pulled out her burner. Swiped. Froze.
Tommy didn’t need to see the screen to know what was there. Dario’s signature move—a timestamped photo of him shaking hands with her uncle at last week’s sit-down. Alliance still intact.
Nina pocketed the phone. "Fuck."
"Tell Marsh I’ll see him soon." Tommy stepped past her, shoulders braced for a knife.
She let him go.
Three blocks later, his own phone buzzed. Unknown number. A single image: the storm drain, keys glinting at the bottom. Then a second text:
You’re welcome.
Tommy exhaled through his teeth. He turned the corner—and nearly collided with Ezra leaning against a parked sedan.
"Get in," Ezra said. "Before Dario changes his mind."
The backseat held a duffel bag. Tommy unzipped it. Blueprints. Surveillance photos. Marsh’s home address circled in red.
Ezra put the car in drive. "He wants you to think before you act. Not instead of."
Tommy zipped the bag shut. The weight of the Glock pressed against his ribs. Familiar. Comfortable.
For now.