Chapter 7 - The Old Guard Answers the Call
Across the city, in the industrial belly of the meatpacking district, sat an unassuming Italian bakery named Panettiere Russo.
The shop was closed for the afternoon, the blinds drawn, the front sign turned to Closed.
Inside the back kitchen, an elderly man with thick gray hair, tattooed forearms, and a heavy butcher’s apron was slicing cured prosciutto with methodical precision.
Frank “The Anchor” Russo had been the right-hand enforcer to Adrian’s father for thirty-five years. When Adrian took over the company, he had transitioned Frank into honorable retirement, buying him this bakery and guaranteeing his grandchildren’s college funds.
The kitchen bell above the rear alley door jingled softly.
Frank didn't turn around. He kept slicing the meat.
“Shop’s closed,” Frank said in a raspy, gravelly voice. “Bread comes out at five in the morning.”
“My father always said you put too much fennel in the sausage, Frank.”
Frank’s hand froze on the handle of the meat slicer.
The blade slowed to a halt.
The old man turned around slowly, his eyes widening as he looked at the man standing in the doorway of his kitchen.
Adrian stood in the dim light, wearing a black wool coat, his hands resting casually in his pockets.
Frank stared for ten unbroken seconds. Then, slowly, he crossed himself with a flour-dusted hand.
“Holy Mother of God,” Frank whispered. “They told the docks you drowned under the suspension bridge.”
“Marcus Vale tried to drown me,” Adrian said, stepping into the warm kitchen. “He used a paralytic neurotoxin and bought off the hospital examiner.”
Frank’s expression instantly shifted. The warm, grandfatherly demeanor melted away, replaced by the lethal, terrifying presence of an old-school waterfront soldier.
“And Elena?” Frank asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl.
“She held the door open for him.”
Frank exhaled heavily, wiping his hands on a clean towel. He walked over to the kitchen cupboard, pulled down a bottle of homemade grappa, and poured two glasses. He pushed one toward Adrian.
“Your father used to say that a snake in the grass is easy to cut,” Frank said softly. “A snake in your bed will kill you in your sleep. What do you need, boss?”
“Marcus is meeting Viktor Cruz’s cartel lieutenants tonight at Dock Forty-Four,” Adrian explained, sipping the fiery liquor. “They’re bringing in three shipping containers filled with synthetic fentanyl precursors. Marcus needs that cash injection to buy out the remaining independent board members before Thursday’s vote.”
“Dock Forty-Four is guarded by twenty of Marcus’s private security goons,” Frank warned. “All ex-military. Heavily armed.”
“I don't need an army, Frank,” Adrian said, pulling a folded map of the harbor’s drainage tunnels from his pocket. “I need six men who are still loyal to my father’s name. I need the harbor floodgates opened at midnight. And I need you to bring the heavy gear from the foundry.”
May you like
Frank looked at the map, then looked up at Adrian, a grim, wolfish grin spreading across his weathered face.
“Your father always said you were too soft for this business because you wore silk ties and went to business school,” Frank chuckled, reaching beneath the butcher’s counter and pulling out a heavy steel lockbox. “Looks like you finally graduated.”
