My uncle told me I was being shipped off to New Jersey to serve a mandatory alliance contract with a veteran syndicate partner named Gabe DeLuca.
Part 1
When I arrived at the docks after a twelve-hour bus ride, I found the man using Gabe’s name was actually Julian Kress, an ex-convict who had been out on parole for six days.
He was living under a dead mobster’s identity to stay one step ahead of the hitmen my uncle had dispatched to kill him.
My uncle thought sending a sixteen-year-old boy into a trap would wipe out the last remaining witness to his financial crimes.
He had no idea I had already altered the ledger numbers before I ever stepped onto that bus.
The air in Newark hit me first: a cold, damp breath off the bay, thick with the smell of brine and diesel. It was a sharp contrast to the stale, recycled air of the Greyhound bus I’d just spent twelve hours on.
My muscles ached from the cramped seat, but a deeper tension thrummed beneath my skin.
I pulled my threadbare duffel bag tighter over my shoulder, the worn strap digging into my coat. The bus station hummed with the muted chaos of arrivals and departures. I didn’t linger.
The address I’d been given was for a specific loading dock at the Port of Newark, miles from the station.
I flagged a taxi, a battered yellow cab that smelled faintly of stale cigarettes and pine air freshener. The driver eyed my age, then the address. His lips thinned.
“Port Authority docks after dark, kid?” he grunted. “That’ll be forty-five bucks. Cash up front.”
I counted out the wrinkled bills from my pocket. It was nearly all I had. The taxi pulled away, the cityscape shrinking behind us as we headed towards the industrial sprawl of the waterfront.
Streetlights became scarcer, replaced by the high-wattage glare of floodlights illuminating immense cargo cranes and stacks of shipping containers. The air grew colder, the wind whipping off the water.
The taxi finally pulled up to a chain-link fence, topped with razor wire. Beyond it, a labyrinth of corrugated metal warehouses stretched into the gloom.
“This is it, kid,” the driver said, his voice clipped. He didn’t wait for a tip, just sped off, leaving me standing alone in the biting wind.
I checked my watch. 8:17 PM. The docks were mostly quiet now, save for the distant clang of metal and the mournful hoot of a ship’s horn.
My uncle, Victor Ross, had promised me a warm welcome from Gabe DeLuca, a “veteran syndicate partner.” Gabe was supposed to be a familiar face, a friendly anchor in this desolate place.
I scanned the shadows, my eyes straining. No one. Just the hulking silhouettes of dormant machinery.
A figure detached itself from the deeper shadows by a stack of lumber pallets. He moved with a heavy, deliberate gait. He wasn’t old, not like I’d imagined Gabe DeLuca, but his face was etched with hard lines, a map of old fights and sleepless nights.
His eyes, dark and assessing, met mine. He wore a faded work jacket, zipped up against the chill, and the brim of a worn baseball cap shadowed his brow.
“You Leo?” he asked, his voice gravelly, but without menace.
“Yeah. You Gabe?” I asked, a tremor in my voice I tried to suppress. He didn’t look like any “Gabe” I’d heard about.
He shook his head slowly. “No, kid. Gabe DeLuca died in Rahway State Prison six days ago. Heart attack.”
My stomach clenched. Rahway. Not exactly the kind of “syndicate partner” welcome my uncle had described. The wind seemed to pick up, whistling a cold, hollow note.
“Then who are you?” I demanded, my hand instinctively tightening on my duffel bag. Every muscle in my body tensed, ready to bolt.
He stepped closer, revealing a faint scar that bisected his left eyebrow. “The name’s Julian Kress. And I’ve been out on parole for exactly six days myself.”
He paused, letting that sink in.
“Your uncle, Vic Ross, paid me fifty thousand dollars to come here and meet you. To be ‘Gabe DeLuca’.”
He didn’t sound angry or apologetic, just resigned. The directness of it was almost worse than any aggression.
“Why?” The single word was barely a whisper.
Julian glanced around, then nodded towards a dented, grey metal door set into the side of a nearby warehouse. “Let’s go inside, Leo. It’s too cold out here for this conversation.”
I hesitated, but the cold was truly biting, and the alternative was standing alone in the darkness. I followed him, my senses on high alert.
The interior of the warehouse office was barely warmer. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows. The air inside smelled of dust and damp concrete. A rickety metal desk stood in the center of the small room, littered with yellowed paperwork.
Julian pulled out a key and unlocked a small, dented metal briefcase that had been tucked under the desk. He set it on the surface.
“Vic sent this with the money,” he said, pushing the briefcase across the desk towards me. “It contained my instructions.”
He flipped open the lid. Inside, neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills gleamed under the harsh light. Fifty thousand dollars. It looked like a king’s ransom to my sixteen-year-old eyes.
Next to the money, a single sheet of paper, folded precisely, lay almost casually.
“He wants you to have an accident, Leo,” Julian said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “A fall from the pier, maybe. Or a rogue container drops on you. Something neat. Before midnight.”
My breath hitched. My uncle had sent me here not for an alliance, but for my death. The cold, hard reality settled over me, heavier than the damp air.
Julian picked up the folded paper, his thumb tracing the crease. “He wants me to make sure you disappear, Leo. Permanently. And he wants it done tonight.”
Part 2
Julian didn’t touch the paper. He just stared at the briefcase for a long moment.
“I took the fifty thousand, Leo,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I’m out on parole, I needed it. But I’m not doing it.”
My eyes darted from the money to his face. There was no hesitation there, just a deep weariness.
“Vic Ross framed me,” Julian continued, meeting my gaze. “Ten years ago. For your father’s murder.”
The air left my lungs. My father. Arthur Ross. The name I rarely spoke aloud.
“He put me away in Rahway for a crime I didn’t commit,” Julian said, his hand balling into a fist on the desk. “He covered his tracks, made it look like I owed him. Made sure I was the only one who could take the fall.”
He pushed the briefcase away, sliding it back under the desk.
“Your father was a good man, Leo. He trusted his brother too much.”
Julian reached into the inside pocket of his worn work jacket. He pulled out a small, unedited cassette tape, its label faded.
“This is from 2014,” he said, handing it to me. The plastic was cool against my palm. “Before Vic arranged for me to ‘disappear’ into the system. Before he had your father silenced for good.”
“It’s his voice,” Julian continued, his tone grim. “Planning it all. Every word.”
Before I could ask anything else, a sudden, heavy pounding vibrated through the metal door of the office. It shook the flimsy walls.
“Julian Kress!” a booming voice cut through the stillness. “Open up! We know you’re in there!”
It was Frank “The Hammer” Bruno, my uncle Vic’s chief enforcer. His voice was unmistakable, rough and impatient.
Heavy footsteps thumped outside, at least four sets.
Julian moved quickly, crossing the small room and peering through a narrow slit in the corrugated metal siding. His face hardened.
“Four of them,” he muttered. “All armed.”
Another loud bang rattled the door.
“Vic Ross just put this warehouse into immediate foreclosure, Kress!” Frank’s voice boomed again, closer this time. “Three hundred thousand dollars, due now! You have exactly two minutes to open this door!”
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