Chapter 7 - The Red Hook Warehouse
The docks at Red Hook smelled of salt water, diesel fuel, and rust.
The rain was falling heavily now, churning the waters of Upper New York Bay into white-capped waves. The warehouse at the end of Pier 42 was a massive, weathered brick structure with corrugated steel doors.
Inside, yellow work lights hung from high wooden rafters, illuminating rows of shipping crates.
In the center of the floor stood Vance—a squat, greasy man with a gold chain and a cheap leather jacket—and Julian Castiglione, a sharp-featured man in a grey suit who looked like a snake in human form.
Sitting on a wooden chair between them, tied with heavy rope and bleeding from a swollen eye, was my ex-husband.
Tom.
When the heavy warehouse doors rolled open and Dominic walked in, flanked by twelve armed men including Val and myself, Vance gasped, backing away until his heels hit a crate.
"Russo?" Castiglione whispered, his face draining of all color. "You're... you were shot in the liver!"
"You should hire better hitmen, Julian," Dominic said, walking forward with calm, measured steps. He kept me at his side, his hand resting securely at the small of my back. "Or at least hitmen who don't leave the target with an elite trauma nurse."
Castiglione’s eyes flicked to me, recognition and horror dawning on his face. "The girl from Apex..."
"You set her up," Dominic said, stopping ten feet away. "You bought her husband's gambling debts, forced her into off-the-books medical work, and thought you could use her as a disposable tool to cover up my murder."
Tom raised his swollen head, his bloodshot eyes widening as he saw me standing beside Dominic Russo.
"Clara?" Tom rasped, his voice trembling with pathetic surprise. "Clara! Oh thank God! Tell them to let me go! I did it for us, Clara! I owed these people—"
"Shut up, Tom," I said.
My voice didn't shake. It was cold, sharp, and empty of any remaining affection or pity.
Tom blinked, stunned. "Clara... please! They were going to kill me!"
"You sold me for forty thousand dollars," I said, walking three steps closer to him. "You let me work eighty hours a week, crying myself to sleep, terrified of loan sharks, while you took a payout from Castiglione and hidden in Jersey."
"I... I was going to send for you!" Tom lied desperately. "Once the debt was cleared—"
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"The debt was never meant to be cleared, Tom," Dominic interrupted smoothly, pulling a silver pistol from his coat. "You were just bait. And now, the line has been cut."
Dominic handed the pistol to me.
