The gunfight and explosion at Pier 3 dominated the New York Daily News front page the next morning:
"Gang Warfare Erupts: Bloodshed Returns to the Docks."
The police cordoned off the pier and posted a few symbolic reward notices, but everyone knew the truth—gang violence in New York's docklands had become routine. Every week, gunshots echoed from a pier, warehouse, or tavern; the next day, the newspapers printed a story, the police went through their motions, and life returned to its uneasy normal.
Yet this time, the repercussions were far more profound.
Salvatore Marino, leader of the Brotherhood, vanished the night of the explosion. Some whispered he had fled to Cuba, others claimed his body rested at the bottom of the Hudson River.
In the following 48 hours, the Brotherhood's hierarchy crumbled. Some members fled, others were quietly reported to the police and imprisoned, while the rest were eliminated in dark alleys by unknown gunmen.
Tony, once Marino's favored protégé, became the scapegoat. Everyone assumed he had stolen the goods and betrayed the Brotherhood.
In the Lower East Side, a suffocating silence hung over the Hand of Zion headquarters. Blue cigar smoke swirled lazily in the dimly lit conference room. The long oak table was lined with high-ranking members, their lips tightly pressed, controlling each breath as though any sound might provoke disaster.
Levin knelt before the table, wrists trapped under the rough grip of a thug. Blood drained from his skin under the pressure, leaving his hands a sickly pale blue. Sweat trickled from his temples, but he gritted his teeth in silence.
At the head of the table stood Elijah Stern, a sixty-year-old Jewish gang leader. He methodically wiped a razor with a silk handkerchief, the blade glinting under the flickering gaslight. Deep wrinkles lined his eyes, but his gaze was icy and commanding.
"Levin," Stern began softly, "before you started that gunfight with Marino's men, did you ask my accountant how much that business was worth?"
The room seemed to chill. "Eight men, three cars, and you've made us the laughingstock of New York!"
A flash of the blade, and Levin's pinky fell, rolling across the table to rest atop a copy of The New York Times, where the headline reported the Pier 3 explosion. Blood blurred the words "Gang Warfare."
Stern replaced the razor, letting the metallic clink against the oak table linger in the heavy silence. He removed his gold-rimmed glasses, polished them carefully, then slid them back on.
"Luciano and Chief Higgins of the Port Authority called me this morning," Stern continued, lifting the severed finger with the tip of the knife and casually tossing it into a brass spittoon. "The Mayor's office is concerned about damage to the pier. Warehouse 5 is warped, and half of the cotton cargo was destroyed."
He leaned forward, eyes sharp. "But the real issue… is Salvatore's special cargo. One truck exploded. The other is missing. Thirty thousand dollars in goods belonging to an important client."
Levin's breathing grew heavier. Stern held the room in silence, letting the gravity sink in.
"Luciano expects an explanation by tomorrow—or the Italians will go to war." Stern crumpled the newspaper into a ball, flinging it against the wall. "Do you know how much this will cost? How much will we need to pay to appease them?!"
He slammed the paper cutter into the table, the vibration echoing through the room. "Starting today, the Hand of Zion withdraws from the dock area. Smuggling, protection rackets, underground casinos, bars—all suspended."
A young cadre muttered, "But the Brotherhood is gone…"
"A perfect opportunity to seize the docks, right?" Stern sneered, jabbing the paper cutter into the table again. "Think! The Italians and the police are waiting for us to slip!"
He circled the table, stopping behind Levin. The thug stiffened. "Your shares now belong to Charlie. Leave New York before dinner," Stern said calmly, then leaned closer. "True businessmen know when to remain silent."
Levin whispered "Yes" through clenched teeth, blood already dripping onto his leather shoes. Stern gave him a final glance, then motioned to the black-clad guards. "Take him out."
Once the door closed, Stern spoke to his treasurer: "Donate five thousand dollars to the Chief's wife's charity—anonymously." He allowed a rare, genuine smile.
The gang doctor stitched Levin's wound as whispers echoed in the corridor.
"I heard a new warehousing and freight company registered at the port," one of the men muttered.
"Yeah… East Coast United Warehousing and Freight," another replied.
"Mind your mouths," the doctor warned, glancing up from his work, "unless you want to retire early."
Meanwhile, the dock area was in transition. Volker and his brothers arrived at a modest two-story brick building near the port. A brass plaque gleamed in the morning sun:
"East Coast United Warehousing and Freight Company."
Volker recognized it immediately—it had once been the Brotherhood's gambling debt settlement house. The exterior, once scarred with graffiti and smoke stains, was freshly painted. Windows sparkled, and the front steps had been newly cemented.
Looking at the sign, Volker felt a strange mix of irony and anticipation.
Mikhail followed, brushing his fingers along his new stubble. "Half a month ago, I was escorting a shipment of cash. Now… we work here? Truly ironic."
Vik said nothing, simply pushing open the door, hinges turning smoothly. The three stepped inside, entering the office of their new empire.