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Maybe because the night was much like that one—hot, sticky, making me thankful for the air-conditioned seats in my car as I turned into the parking lot. The sky was like that night as well. Clear, a crescent moon bright overhead.
It was later than it had been when I was a kid, though, well after two in the morning.
I'd gotten the call as I had been doing the cash out at the restaurant, dashing my plans of going home, having a drink, and climbing into bed before four in the morning for a change.
But that was the price you paid when you were taking over. Not fully. It was a process. My father wasn't quite ready to be done yet. And there was the issue with the Five Families in New York who would need to approve of my succession.
But my father was certainly no longer the one who ran out in the middle of the night when there was an issue. That was my place.
Leandro and his son Dario were standing there under one of the lights, likely melting in their suits, but refusing to take off their jackets. I left mine on as well as I cut the engine, climbed out of the car, grabbing the gun from under my seat as I went, a motion that was so innate at this point that I didn't even give it a thought.
"Alright. What's going on?" I asked, approaching them.
Times were tricky. And it meant you didn't discuss anything over the phone, over text. You never wanted shit leading back to you. So all I knew was I needed at the docks. All they knew was I would show up when I could.
"We have someone sniffing around," Dario said, looking much like his father had in his youth, but with fifty fewer pounds. They had the same somewhat rounded faces, the dark, sunken eyes, the same wide shoulders.
"Anyone we recognize?"
There were always people sniffing around, looking to see if they could get into a container, steal something. We had security, but with an area as massive as this, there were ways around them if you were determined enough. And people often were.
"No, she doesn't seem to be from around here."
"She?" I asked, stopping on my way to the office to check out the cameras.
"Yeah," Dario agreed, nodding. "Pretty thing too."
"She's not here to meet a guy?" I asked, knowing we had issues with prostitution in the area thanks to a local street gang who didn't realize they needed to keep their asses on their own turf.
"No. She's on a mission of some fucking sort," Leandro said, shaking his head. "Running around, looking at containers, definitely looking for something. Not someone."
"You have Angelo keeping tabs on her?" I asked, approaching the squat, square brick building that acted as our main office. It wasn't much of a space, just a front room with a bathroom and sitting area, a reception desk that was empty at this time of night, then a hall that led to two offices. The one for my father, me, and my brother who rarely ever set foot in it. Then the other one, where security was set up.
"What is she up to?" I asked as I opened the door, finding Angelo sitting there at the desk eight screens in a semi-circle around him, the desk littered with coffee cups and energy drink cans.
"Looking at numbers on the containers and then shining a flashlight into the top corners of containers. For what reason, I don't have a fucking clue."
"Where is she?" I asked, eyes scanning the containers.
"Far left over by the shit that came in from South America yesterday."
"Alright," I said, turning to walk back out. "Call me with updates if she moves."
With that, I nodded to Leandro and Dario, watching them take off in the directions as I kept moving in straight toward the left side of the shipyard.
Just because it was a woman didn't mean we were going to let down our guards. These weren't the old days where it was a boys-only club, this criminal underworld. These were new times, and women could be—and often were—the heads of their own empires. And, in my experience, could be even more ruthless than their male counterparts.
Had I ever pulled a gun on a woman?
No.
But if it was about the survival of my business, I figured I would have to be willing to do that.
In my experience, people tended to do a lot of talking when they were staring down the muzzle of a gun held by someone in the local mafia. We were top of the criminal food chain for a reason.
And talking was what she would do when we found her. Because answers were what I was after.
What, exactly, in my port was so important that it was worth risking her life for?
