You married a dying 74-year-old woman for five thousand dollars cash, Julian, my dockworker friends laughed at the diner in Newark, shaking their heads. "You're a fake husband to an old lady just...
Don Sal Cassano sat in silence for a long, agonizing moment, his gaze shifting from the trembling Arlo Gable to the enraged Victor Garra. The air was thick, charged with unspoken consequences. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, Cassano slammed his open hand flat on the wooden table. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
“Victor Garra,” Cassano’s voice was low, yet it vibrated with an authority that silenced every man in the room. “You have committed cardinal offenses against the commission. You forged papers. You lied to us. You brought police attention to our properties. You attempted to defraud a deceased associate, and you dishonored her legacy by falsifying documents after her death.”
Garra stood rigid, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning. DeLuca and his enforcers shifted nervously.
“This behavior is unacceptable,” Cassano continued, his voice rising, “and it is a threat to the stability of our entire operation. The commission values order. It values quiet. It values respect for the agreements that hold us together.”
He then turned his gaze to me. “Julian Driscoll, as per the 1994 Apex Logistics charter, and by the evidence presented, the commission formally recognizes you as the sole, legal owner of Apex Logistics LLC. Your claim is legitimate. Garra’s claim is null and void.”
A wave of relief, cold and profound, washed over me. I had won. Nora’s plan had worked.
Cassano then turned back to Garra. “For your transgressions, Victor, the commission rules: you are hereby stripped of your crew command. You are no longer recognized as a captain. Your assets, those tied to Apex and those gained through your unsanctioned skimming, are forfeit to the families.”
DeLuca’s eyes widened. Garra’s face was a mask of disbelief, then a flicker of pure, murderous hatred.
“You will answer to the commission for your disrespect,” Cassano concluded, his voice final. “Take him.”
Two of Cassano’s burly enforcers moved forward, their intent clear. They were large, stoic men, bred for precisely this moment. They reached for Garra, one grabbing his arm, the other moving to secure him.
Suddenly, the lights flickered. The heavy industrial machinery below us ground to a halt. The entire building was plunged into an inky blackness.
Chaos erupted. Gunshots echoed through the sudden silence, deafening in the enclosed space. A burst of automatic fire ripped through the air, splintering wood. Shouts, curses, and the crash of overturning tables erupted around us.
“Get down!” Old Joe roared, shoving me to the floor.
I hit the cold concrete, covering my head. More gunshots, closer this time. The smell of gunpowder filled the air. I heard a muffled grunt, a curse.
Through the chaos, in the brief flash of a distant streetlamp, I saw a figure darting for the rear fire exit, illuminated for a split second before vanishing into the stormy Newark night. It was Garra. He had planned an escape.
The emergency lights flickered on, bathing the room in an eerie, red glow. Cassano’s enforcers were tending to a wounded man, one of Garra’s crew, bleeding on the floor. Garra and DeLuca were gone.
Cassano stood, unruffled, amidst the wreckage. He looked at the gaping fire exit, then back at the room. His face was a thundercloud.
“He runs,” Cassano said, his voice quiet, deadly. “He runs like a dog. He will pay for this. He will pay for everything.”
The silence that followed was heavy with the promise of a bloody war. I had won Apex Logistics, but Garra was still out there. And he had just declared war on the entire Newark commission. My victory felt hollow, bought at a price I hadn’t yet fully calculated.
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