New York Harbor in the early morning was shrouded in a gray mist. The damp sea breeze carried the sharp scent of salt, fish, and coal from the freighters docked along the piers.
Shane had carefully dressed for the occasion: a clean linen shirt and neatly pressed trousers. The collar was starched stiff, slightly rubbing against his neck, but he welcomed the formality.
A subtle tension permeated the docks. The stevedores were quieter than usual, speaking in hushed tones, while the harsh roar of steam cranes echoed sharply through the fog. Burly men moved with deliberate care, unloading wooden crates stamped "Industrial Glycerin" from a freighter, each step measured as if the ground itself might give way.
Not far away, a port policeman, corpulent and weary, leaned against a crane, blowing smoke rings. His badge gleamed dully in the gray morning light, and his free hand rested casually on his holster. He shot Shane a meaningful, knowing smile. Shane lowered his gaze and quickened his pace.
After turning two corners stacked with cargo, Shane arrived at the four-story red brick building that loomed ahead. The morning light pierced the mist, catching the copper sign above the entrance and giving it a faint golden shimmer.
This was the headquarters of the Atlantic Shipping Company, controlled by Vito Costa.
Established in 1912, the company handled transatlantic freight and coastal shipping. On the surface, they transported grain, cotton, and industrial materials—but since Prohibition, Shane knew exactly what those crates of "Industrial Glycerin" really contained.
Through close cooperation with dockworkers and customs officials, Atlantic Shipping's freighters avoided routine inspections. Federal agents had investigated suspected smuggling multiple times but never found conclusive evidence. In 1927, the remnants of those networks still whispered through the docks—powerful, discreet, and dangerous.
Shane pushed open the heavy oak doors. A faint perfume lingered in the air. The receptionist, elegantly made up with bright red nails, glanced at him briefly before offering a professional smile.
"Mr. Costa is expecting you," she said, deliberately slow, revealing a subtle glint in her teeth. "Fourth floor, last room down the hall."
The elevator doors opened, and Shane stepped into the carpeted hallway. Classical oil paintings lined the walls, their gilded frames muted under the soft light of wall sconces.
At the end of the hallway stood a burly bodyguard, one of the two who had accompanied Vito Costa the previous evening. His tie clip bore a small sapphire. Seeing Shane, he merely nodded and silently opened the office door.
Inside, the office smelled of cigar smoke, polished leather, and Italian coffee. The space was spacious and luxuriously appointed, with a full-length window framing the bustling harbor below.
In the center of the room stood a massive ebony desk, meticulously organized with a gold pen holder, crystal inkwell, and small personal effects. A mahogany display cabinet held dozens of crystal bottles labeled "Medical Alcohol," each stopper edged in gold.
Behind the desk hung a portrait of Vito Costa in a custom suit, cigar in hand, gazing solemnly into the distance. A brass plaque read: "1923, Gift from the Carnegie Family."
Vito sat behind the desk, cigar between his fingers. "Punctuality is a good habit, Shane. Have a seat."
Shane walked to the chair, sat upright, and pressed his fingers to his knees. Vito observed him silently before nodding in approval. "You look the part. Let's get straight to business."
Shane scanned the contract he had been handed. The salary was indeed triple his current earnings, with generous bonuses and benefits. Tempting, certainly—but the job description was vague, only noting: "Assist the company with special matters when necessary."
Shane's instincts told him this was far from ordinary work. He looked up at Vito, seeking clues in his inscrutable expression.
"Well, Shane?" Vito began, a faint playfulness in his tone. "Are you satisfied with the contract?"
Shane replied cautiously, "The pay is very appealing, and the benefits are generous, but the job description… seems vague."
Vito chuckled. "Some things don't need to be written down. What matters is what you gain, isn't it?"
Shane remained silent, knowing he was being tested. After a moment of contemplation, he said firmly, "Mr. Costa, I appreciate your trust and this opportunity, but I cannot accept this job."
Vito's eyes flickered in surprise. He exhaled a smoke ring, calm as ever. "Oh? May I ask why?"
Shane met his gaze without hesitation. "The wealth and opportunities are tempting, but I have my principles. I won't risk involvement in uncertain matters. I must protect my sister, and I cannot take risks that endanger her."
Vito was quiet, then chuckled softly. "Principles, huh? The world doesn't reward them, Shane."
"I understand, Mr. Costa. But I believe there is a way to protect my family while maintaining my integrity."
Vito studied him a few moments longer, then placed his cigar in an ashtray engraved with a soaring eagle. "How old is your sister?"
"Twelve," Shane replied, tensing slightly.
"The age of blooming flowers," Vito murmured in Italian, glancing at a silver-framed photograph on his desk of a young girl in a communion dress. "Family… deserves caution."
He tapped the ashtray and nodded. "Alright, Shane. I respect your decision. If you change your mind, my door will remain open."
Shane stood, bowing slightly. "Thank you, Mr. Costa. I will remember your kindness."
Walking out into the morning mist, Shane glanced at the tall sign of Atlantic Shipping. He had declined an opportunity that could have quickly increased his wealth. He had wavered for a moment, but ultimately, he chose prudence over greed.
He understood the trends shaping society. The shadow of Prohibition, the flourishing underground economy, and the hidden networks of bootlegging, smuggling, and gambling were changing New York. The shipping industry was a crucial link in this shadowed chain—and Vito Costa's company a powerful cog within it.
Perhaps one day, I will help you in my own way, Mr. Costa, Shane thought. But not now—and not like this.