Chapter 4 - The Laundromat on 9th Street
The building on 9th Street was a decaying four-story walk-up with peeling green paint and a commercial laundromat on the ground floor that smelled permanently of scorched detergent and damp wool.
I walked three paces behind Lily as we turned the corner. I had my hand rested casually inside my coat pocket, fingers wrapped securely around the wooden grip of Sal’s snub-nosed revolver.
The hallway smelled of stale cabbage and old carpet.
We climbed to the second floor. At the end of the narrow corridor, door 2B was slightly ajar.
From inside came the loud, abrasive sound of a sports broadcast, accompanied by the sharp clink of glass bottles.
Lily pushed the door open timidly.
“Uncle Tony?” she called out.
A man sitting on a worn leather couch turned his head. He was in his late thirties, wearing a stained undershirt and sweatpants, his face thick with stubble. On the coffee table before him sat three empty beer bottles and a small stack of crumpled twenty-dollar bills.
“Where the hell have you been?” Tony barked, setting his bottle down with a loud slap. “It’s almost eight-thirty. You’re supposed to be at school, and where’s the money from the yard?”
Then his eyes traveled past her shoulder and landed on me.
He froze.
I was six-foot-two, weighing two hundred and ten pounds, covered in warehouse grime, blood, and wearing a torn silk dress shirt. Even battered, the authority of thirty years on the Brooklyn docks was stamped across my posture.
Tony stood up slowly, his hand drifting toward his back pocket. “Who the hell are you?”
“Dominic Moretti,” I said calmly, stepping into the room and shutting the door firmly behind me.
The name registered instantly. Nobody in South Brooklyn lived within ten blocks of the docks without knowing who ran Moretti Logistics.
Tony’s face turned gray. “Moretti? What... what are you doing here?”
“Lily,” I said softly, without taking my eyes off Tony. “Go into your mom’s room.”
Lily looked between us, sensed the sudden drop in atmospheric pressure, and scurried down the short hallway, closing the bedroom door behind her.
As soon as the latch clicked, I took two fast steps forward, grabbed Tony by the front of his dirty shirt, and slammed him against the wall with enough force to rattle the framed pictures.
“Listen to me very carefully, Tony,” I hissed, bringing my face two inches from his. “If you ever yell at that child again, if you ever take a single dime she earns, or if you even look in her direction, I will have my men drop you into the East River with fifty pounds of rebar tied to your ankles. Do you understand me?”
Tony nodded frantically, his eyes wide with absolute terror. “I... I was just looking out for them! Elena’s sick, man! She owes rent!”
“She doesn't owe a dime,” I said, shoving him toward the front door. “Get your coat. Get your shoes. Leave the keys on the table.”
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Tony didn't argue. He grabbed his jacket off the chair, stumbled over his own boots, and practically sprinted out into the hallway, slamming the door behind him.
I stood in the quiet living room, breathing heavily, letting the adrenaline settle. Then I turned and walked slowly toward the bedroom at the end of the hall.
