The rain hadn't stopped.
It fell harder now, slicing through the night like a thousand silver needles. Pier 42 was silent again, too silent. The bodies of the three men lay sprawled across the warehouse floor, their blood pooling in dark, glistening puddles. Anton Varga was gone, vanished into the labyrinth beneath the city.
Outside, the black sedan still idled in the downpour. Its windshield wipers swayed like metronomes counting time to an unfinished song.
A fourth man emerged from the shadows beyond the pier's edge. He was older than the others, his face lined with years of loyalty and regret. His name was Enzo Marchetti, and he had once been Anton's right hand.
He stepped into the warehouse, boots crunching glass underfoot. He took in the scene with a practiced eye, three dead men, one missing target.
"Goddamn it," he muttered, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with shaking fingers. "Fucking kids."
He crouched beside the youngest of the fallen, the one who'd spoken first. Enzo knew him well, Marco Delvecchio, bright-eyed and eager, too full of ambition for his own good.
"You should've listened to me," Enzo whispered, brushing rainwater from Marco's lifeless face. "Should've waited."
He stood slowly, scanning the room. Then he saw it, a trail of crimson footprints leading toward the far wall. Not many. A few steps, then nothing. That meant the old man wasn't hurt bad. Just enough to slow him down.
Enzo walked over to the hidden panel Anton had used. He ran his hand along the cold steel until he found the release mechanism. With a soft click, the passage opened, revealing a narrow tunnel descending into darkness.
He hesitated.
There was a sound behind him, a car door closing. Then another. Two more vehicles had arrived. Heavy footsteps echoed through the warehouse.
"Marchetti," a voice called. "You still breathing?"
Enzo turned slowly. Standing in the doorway were two more men, one tall and broad-shouldered, the other wiry and sharp-eyed. Both wore dark suits that gleamed under the dim overhead lights.
"I'm here," Enzo said, not hiding the exhaustion in his voice. "And he's gone."
The taller man smirked. "Anton? You're kidding me. You brought three boys to kill a lion."
"They didn't listen," Enzo snapped. "They went in guns blazing. I told Rocco to send someone experienced."
"And what?" the second man sneered. "Send you instead? You haven't pulled a trigger in five years."
Enzo stared at him, eyes hard as flint. "I know this city better than any of you. And I know where he's going."
The taller man stepped forward. "Then lead us."
Enzo exhaled smoke, then crushed the cigarette under his heel. "He'll head underground. Old tunnels, forgotten places. But he won't stop running until he finds the boy."
"The grandson?" the wiry one asked.
Enzo nodded grimly. "Luca."
Silence settled between them like fog.
Finally, the taller man spoke. "Then we find Luca first."
Enzo looked at him, expression unreadable. "That might be the only way to end this."
Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the tunnel.
The other two followed.
Behind them, the rain kept falling. Somewhere deep below, the city stirred.
And in a cramped apartment above a butcher shop across the East River, Luca was just beginning to understand that the past had come knocking.