It was late Thursday night.
A dense fog clung to New York Harbor, shrouding Pier 3 in a thick, ghostly haze. The dim streetlights cast blurry halos, and the distant, mournful whistle of a freighter echoed as if from another world.
Salvatore Marino, the boss of the Brotherhood, stood beside a sleek black Packard sedan, alligator leather shoes splashing lightly on the wet pavement. The Sicilian wore a silver-gray three-piece suit, a gold pocket watch chain glinting in the moonlight. A gray fedora shadowed half of his stern face.
His men were stationed around the pier, some with hands resting on their waists, others gripping Chicago-type submachine guns, scanning the fog for any signs of trouble.
Tony, a young enforcer, stood behind Salvatore, tense and alert.
"Open warehouse five," Salvatore commanded, nodding toward the warehouse manager.
The iron door creaked as it slid open, revealing dozens of wooden crates labeled "Olive Oil" and "Machine Parts" under the dim floodlight. Two gunmen pried open one crate, exposing premium Cuban cigars wrapped in oil paper.
"Tony, get the loading done—quickly," Salvatore ordered, his gaze slicing through the fog as if anticipating danger.
Tony's eyes flickered with excitement as he sprinted toward the waiting Ford trucks, three steps at a time. The workers moved efficiently, loading crates like well-oiled machinery. The dull thud of wood against metal echoed across the pier.
Salvatore leaned against his Packard, fingers tapping lightly on the pocket watch. When the last crates were securely fastened, his shoulders relaxed slightly. This was a special order, one that could open doors to Manhattan's high society if executed perfectly.
He drew a Cuban Partagás cigar from his suit pocket. Dominic, his loyal subordinate, clicked a gold-plated lighter, and flames danced in the humid night. Smoke swirled and merged between them, softening the tension for a moment.
The porters and junior gang members began to gather, chatting quietly. The distant horn of a cargo ship drifted across the harbor. Salvatore checked his watch; they were ahead of schedule, bringing a satisfied smile to his lips.
Then, from the shadows of stacked crates and coal piles near the warehouse, came the clang of metal.
Gunfire erupted.
Levin of the Hand of Zion led seven men in a sudden ambush. Splinters flew from the crates as bullets tore through the night. A Brotherhood member barely raised his Thompson submachine gun before a .45 caliber round ended him instantly.
"Get down!" Salvatore roared, his cigar falling, sparks scattering across the concrete. He drew his nickel-plated Colt 1911, firing back as chaos erupted inside and outside warehouse five.
Tony stumbled as Rocco, his companion, grabbed him behind a truck. In the confusion, Tony watched in horror as Rocco's chest erupted in blood, his body collapsing like a bag of flour.
Levin's gunmen advanced steadily, their boots clinking on wet pavement, ejected shell casings scattering. A Slavic gunman made precise, deadly shots with a Mauser C96, each pull of the trigger met with screams and chaos.
Salvatore's Colt clicked on an empty magazine. He backed against a rusty oil drum, sweat soaking his silk shirt. Changing magazines with a sharp gesture, he signaled his two remaining men to cover the pier exit.
Then, a stray bullet struck the fuel tank of the first truck. BOom! An orange fireball engulfed half the warehouse, throwing Tony several meters back. Wooden crates splintered under the force.
Through blurred vision, Tony saw Levin's figure in the firelight, shouting: "Don't let Marino escape!"
Two hundred meters away, Volker stood at the vent of the abandoned lighthouse, binoculars in hand. The firelight reflected across his sharp features as he observed every movement.
"It's our turn," he muttered.
Vik tugged at his tie. "Tony's just a small fry—worth all this trouble?"
Volker's gaze stayed on the chaos. "This opportunity was arranged by Mr. Cassidy. We just need to execute it cleanly. That's all."
From the smoke, a figure resembling Tony sprinted toward the remaining truck, leather satchel in hand.
"Tony?!" Salvatore shouted, pupils narrowing as he watched the truck start its engine.
Levin yelled, "Stop that truck!" Gunmen fired at the vehicle, sparks flying off its metal body. But the real Tony, recovering from the shockwave, muttered, "That… that's not me!"
Before he could react, a dark figure leapt from above. Pain exploded at the back of his neck, and Tony fell into darkness. His limp body was quickly bagged and dragged away like discarded trash.
The fire and gunfire gradually subsided. Levin wiped blood from his cheek, glancing helplessly at the taillights fading into the fog.
Volker pocketed his binoculars, walking toward the lighthouse exit.
Vik watched the smoke rise. "The cargo…"
"It will arrive at Mr. Shawn's leased warehouse on time," Volker replied, adjusting his jacket collar. "As for those fools on the pier, let them continue their cat-and-mouse game."
Police sirens wailed in the distance. All that remained on the pier were the burning skeleton of a truck, scattered crates, broken liquor bottles, and drifting Yiddish curses, mingling with the humid, gunpowder-scented breeze.