Chapter 13 - Reckoning on the Crimson Docks
Before peace could truly settle over the bayou, one final duty remained.
The docks of the Port of New Orleans—the massive commercial freight terminals
along the river where Don Vance’s corrupt network had operated for a
decade—required a complete, public transition of power.
At midnight on a Friday, the forty capos of the Southern Syndicate assembled in
the master warehouse of Pier 42.
The air smelled of river fog, diesel fuel, and old creosote. Ships from South
America and Europe were moored along the docks, their cranes silhouetted against
the city lights.
Lorenzo stood on the raised industrial platform overlooking the vast warehouse
floor.
Beside him stood Matteo, and beside Lorenzo stood me, wearing an elegant black
wool coat, the matriarch’s gold signet ring gleaming on my hand in the overhead
halogen lights.
Down on the concrete floor, three hundred dock workers, union stewards, and
syndicate lieutenants stood in absolute silence, waiting for the word of the
Don.
Lorenzo stepped up to the railing, his voice projecting across the cavernous
space with the thunderous authority of an emperor:
“For ten years, Don Vance and my treacherous cousin poisoned this port,” Lorenzo
announced. “They siphoned your pensions, brought lethal narcotics through our
legitimate shipping lines, and threatened our families with violence.”
He pointed down toward the center of the warehouse, where four massive
industrial shipping containers were being hooked to hydraulic cranes.
“Those containers hold forty million dollars of illicit contraband seized from
Vance’s warehouses,” Lorenzo continued. “They will be incinerated tonight in the
blast furnaces of the Gary steelworks. As of midnight, this port operates under
the ancient charter of Antonio Moretti.”
A murmur of surprised approval rippled through the assembled crowd.
“All union pensions are restored with triple interest,” Lorenzo declared. “All
dock workers will receive full healthcare endowments. And anyone caught
trafficking poison through these waters will answer to my personal enforcers.”
He turned his head slowly, looking at me.
He reached out his hand, inviting me to step forward to the railing beside him.
I took his hand, stepping into the bright halogen light before the three hundred
hardened men of the Southern Syndicate.
“And for those who do not know,” Lorenzo proclaimed, his voice ringing with
pride, “this is Evelyn Cross. The woman who stood beside my family in our
darkest hour. Her word is my word. Her command is my command. Respect her as you
respect the Moretti name.”
The warehouse erupted into a deafening roar of cheers and applause. Hardened men
banged their heavy wrenches against steel beams, celebrating the dawn of an era
of honor and prosperity.
Lorenzo turned to me in the roaring din, pulling me gently against his side.
He looked down into my eyes, leaning close so only I could hear his voice over
the cheering crowd:
“You see that, Evelyn?” he whispered.
“See what?”
May you like
“They don't cheer for fear,” Lorenzo said, his silver eyes shining with deep
emotion. “They cheer for hope. And you brought that hope back to this city.”
