The afterglow of the setting sun spilled over the Hudson River, turning the water a deep, blood-red hue.
Shane dragged his weary body off the dock. The stacks of cargo cast long shadows in the fading light, like silent, slumbering beasts. In his pocket rested his weekly wages, and he thought of visiting his sister, Mary, at St. Mary's School for Girls this weekend. After that, he planned to check the New York Stock Exchange; it was time to advance his next plan.
Since selling his shipment of liquor, Shane had quickly paid Mary's tuition, allowing her to begin school smoothly. Two days ago, taking advantage of St. Anthony's Day, he had enlisted Matteo to sell two pieces of jewelry. After deducting the 20% commission, Shane had recovered a significant portion of his capital.
Thinking of Mary's smile the last time he had visited her, Shane felt the fatigue in his shoulders ease slightly.
Just as he was about to leave the dock, three figures emerged from behind a pile of crates, blocking his path.
The leader was Tony. He wore a plaid work shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. In his hand, he twirled a gleaming dagger, a cold sneer on his face, eyes full of menace.
"Irishman," Tony said in a low, mocking voice, "you seem to have forgotten our agreement."
A chill ran up Shane's spine. He tensed every muscle, clenching his fists and forcing himself to steady his breathing.
"I've already paid the protection money," Shane said coldly, meeting Tony's gaze.
"That was three weeks ago," Tony advanced slowly, flipping the dagger deftly in his hand. "Now it's time to settle everything. You know the rules, right?"
Shane's right hand slipped into his pocket, fingers curling around a small switchblade, but he did not act rashly. Tony's two accomplices flanked him, their eyes cold and hungry.
"I don't have that much money," Shane said evenly. "I just got paid today… and tomorrow I need to buy school supplies for my sister."
Tony's fist collided with Shane's shoulder with a sickening thud. Pain exploded through his body, shooting up his spine and making black dots dance across his vision.
"Who cares about your sister?!" Tony roared, spittle flying. "Pay up—or lose a leg!"
Shane stumbled, crashing into a cargo container. Rusted nails tore through his work clothes. The shock of pain cleared his muddled mind. His body tensed, muscles coiled, ready to strike back…
A deep, commanding voice cut through the air. "Causing trouble on my dock, Tony? Are you tired of living?"
Everyone froze. All eyes turned toward the speaker: a tall man in a black wool suit, the last rays of the sun gilding his silhouette with a golden edge. Two burly bodyguards flanked him, shoulder holsters faintly visible beneath their jackets.
Tony's face paled. "Mr. Costa, we were just… playing a joke on this kid…"
"Get out," Vito Costa said softly, yet his words carried undeniable authority. "If I see you causing trouble on this dock again, I'll throw you in the Hudson."
Tony and his men bolted, leaving Shane a glare that promised revenge.
Vito approached Shane, scrutinizing him. "You're the Irish kid who leaves the dock last every day?"
Shane straightened, forcing calm. "Yes, Mr. Costa. My name is Shane Cassidy."
Vito's eyes narrowed in mild surprise. He studied Shane for a moment, then nodded knowingly. "Hawk introduced you, didn't he?"
Shane only nodded silently.
"I've been watching you," Vito continued. "You work hard, and…" He pointed at Shane's hands. "You wear gloves all the time. No calluses. You know what you want."
Shane realized his careful habits had not gone unnoticed.
"Come work for me," Vito said. "The pay is three times what you're making now. And… Tony and his gang? They won't bother you again."
Shane's heart beat faster. He hesitated, then cautiously asked, "What would you have me do, Mr. Costa?"
Vito smiled faintly. "Smart question. Come to my office tomorrow morning at eight. Wear clean clothes—yours are torn now."
The last rays of the sun disappeared below the horizon. Dock lights flickered on, and Shane felt the cool night breeze off the river. He watched Vito and his bodyguards vanish down the dock, knowing the offer was a rare opportunity.
It promised rapid gains—but it also meant stepping into a world of unknown dangers.
Back in the apartment, the familiar scent of kerosene and aged wood greeted him. Shane navigated the narrow room in darkness, his fingers finding the cold glass of the kerosene lamp. A match flared, lighting the lamp and casting warm, steady light across the room.
He pulled the folded note from his pocket—the address of Vito Costa's office—and stared at it for a long time. Outside, a freighter's low whistle carried over the water, the sound echoing softly.
Shane's shadow flickered on the mottled walls, his thoughts just as uncertain. Vito Costa's name carried weight in the port. Why would a powerful Italian businessman summon an ordinary dockworker?