Chapter 6 - The Ghost of New Jersey
The neon sign of the Blue Anchor bar flickered through the greasy fog, casting an sickly green glow over the back alleys of Newark. Inside, the air tasted of stale tobacco, cheap whiskey, and unwashed fear. Marco Maroni sat in a corner booth shrouded in shadows, his knuckles white as he squeezed a heavy crystal glass. Across from him sat his remaining capos, their faces grim. The loss of Donald Vance and the botched container yard raid had cost the Maroni syndicate half its smuggling routes and millions in confiscated hardware.
"Costa thinks he's won," Marco growled, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that made the junior soldiers flinch. "He thinks bleeding out our New Jersey docks means we're dead. But a wounded beast bites the hardest."
A shadow detached itself from the doorway, stepping into the dim light of the booth. It was a man wrapped in a heavy trench coat, water dripping from the brim of his fedora. He pulled down his scarf, revealing a thin, pale face split by a cynical grin. It was Julian Vance—Donald’s younger brother, and unlike Donald, Julian wasn't a corporate embezzler. He was a certified ghost, a former military contractor turned freelance demolition expert who operated outside the traditional syndicate codes.
"My brother was a fool," Julian said coolly, sliding into the booth without an invitation. "He tried to play boardroom politics with a butcher. Vincent Costa doesn't understand ledgers. He understands blood. If you want to break him, you don't go after his docks. You go after the thing he just let inside his fortress."
Marco narrowed his eyes, leaning forward. "You mean the secretary. Mave."
"She's the one who balanced the books and found the pipeline," Julian muttered, pulling a sleek, encrypted tablet from his coat and sliding it across the sticky table. "She's the keystone. Take her, and Costa's brilliant strategy falls apart into raw, blind panic. And when a man panics, he makes fatal mistakes."
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Marco stared at the dossier flashing on the tablet screen—surveillance photos of Mave leaving the downtown headquarters, her morning routine, the exact security protocols of her upscale loft apartment. A slow, predatory smile spread across Marco's scarred face.
"Do it," Marco whispered. "Bring her to me, and name your price."
