Chapter 3 - The Shadow of the Port
By mid-afternoon, the rain had settled into a steady, dreary drizzle against the reinforced glass windows of Jonah’s main office.
The office was a massive room lined with thousands of leather-bound books, a massive polished mahogany desk, and several secure monitors displaying live security feeds of the docks, warehouses, and perimeter gates across Baltimore.
Jonah sat behind the desk in his wheelchair, wearing a dark tailored suit jacket over his shirt. His posture was commanding, but Riley, sitting on a leather sofa in the corner sorting through his daily medication regime, noticed the subtle tilt of his head—the quiet sign of exhaustion he tried so hard to hide.
The heavy office door clicked open. Frank entered, followed by two men in expensive, ill-fitting Italian suits.
The first was Sal Russo—a squat, heavy-set man with silver hair, thick fingers, and a permanent scowl. The second was a younger man named Dominic, whose sharp eyes darted nervously around the room, taking in the security cameras, the heavy furniture, and finally, Jonah’s wheelchair.
"Jonah," Sal said, stepping up to the desk without being invited. He didn't offer his hand. "Good to see you out of bed."
Jonah didn't move a muscle. His hands rested flat on the desk. "Sal. I didn't approve a meeting today."
"Things are moving fast down at Pier 42," Sal said, leaning his heavy hands against the edge of Jonah’s mahogany desk. "The container shipments from Rotterdam came in three hours early. The union reps are asking questions about the missing manifests. We need decisions, Jonah. Real decisions. Not messages passed through Frank."
Sal’s eyes flicked briefly toward Jonah’s hands—specifically, the slight, involuntary tremor that had just started in Jonah’s left fingers under the stress of the encounter.
Jonah immediately drew his left hand back, placing it beneath the desk line out of sight.
"The manifests will be handled the same way we’ve handled them for ten years," Jonah said, his voice smooth and ice-cold. "You take twenty percent at the gate, and the rest goes to the warehouse on industrial boulevard."
"Ten years ago, you were standing on the docks yourself, Jonah," Sal said, his tone dipping into a dangerous, condescending territory. "Now... well, now you're sitting in this big dark house while the rest of us do the heavy lifting in the rain. The street is talking. They're wondering if Mercer Enterprises is being run by a boss... or an invalid."
Frank’s hand immediately dropped toward his belt.
Jonah’s face remained completely impassive, but his breath caught in his chest. The insult hit the exact raw, bleeding nerve he fought every single second of his existence. He felt his chest tighten, his heart racing, his paralyzed lower body suddenly feeling like an impossibly heavy anchor dragging him into an ocean of powerlessness.
Before Frank could draw his weapon, or before Jonah could speak, a loud, obnoxious CRUNCH echoed from the corner of the room.
Everyone in the room turned.
Riley was standing near the sofa, holding a half-eaten green apple. She chewed loudly, taking a long, deliberate look at Sal Russo, before taking another massive, crunching bite.
Sal glared at her, his brow furrowing in disgust. "Who the hell is this?"
"I'm his nurse," Riley said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and stepping forward toward the desk. "And you are currently breaking three major healthcare guidelines."
Sal blinked, astonished. "What?"
"First," Riley said, pointing the core of her apple at Sal’s broad chest, "you’re tracking wet mud onto a floor I just swept, which makes you a public nuisance. Second, your blood pressure looks dangerously high based on the purple tint of your nose, so you shouldn't be yelling at anyone. And third..."
She stepped right up to the desk, standing directly between Sal and Jonah.
"You’re wasting my patient's cognitive energy with stupid, repetitive questions," Riley said, looking Sal straight in the eyes. "Mr. Mercer gave you your order. Twenty percent at the gate. If your brain is too small to process a basic numerical percentage, I can write it down on a sticky note in bright pink crayon for you."
Dominic’s jaw dropped. Frank let out a muffled cough that sounded suspiciously like a smothered laugh.
Sal’s face turned from purple to deep crimson. "Listen to me, you little bitch—"
"Sal," Jonah’s voice sliced through the room like a steel razor.
Sal froze.
Jonah slowly maneuvered his chair out from behind the desk, moving right alongside Riley. The cold tremor in his hand was completely gone, replaced by a dark, terrifying authority that radiated from his eyes.
"You have five seconds to leave this house," Jonah said softly to Sal. "If you ever speak to my staff—or question my command—in this room again, Frank will ensure you leave Baltimore in six different container boxes. Am I clear?"
Sal stared at Jonah. For a terrifying second, the old mob boss who had ruled the waterfront was fully present in the room, paralyzed legs or not.
Sal swallowed hard, stepped back, and adjusted his coat. "We'll talk later, Jonah."
He turned and practically sprinted out of the office, Dominic following closely at his heels.
The heavy door slammed shut.
Silence returned to the room.
Jonah turned his chair toward Riley. His gray eyes were dark, intense, and burning with a strange mixture of rage and fascination.
"What," Jonah whispered, "was that?"
May you like
Riley took another calm bite of her apple. "That was me protecting my shift. If you get a stroke from elevated stress levels, I have to fill out four pages of incident reports. I hate paperwork, Mercer."
Jonah stared at her for five long seconds. Then, slowly, he covered his face with his right hand, his shoulders shaking slightly as a deep, genuine laugh escaped him.
