“Harm is being done. You’re operating without permission, without paying tribute, without any acknowledgment that you’re in my zone.”
“The docks are big, Ledger. Plenty of room for everyone.”
“Not when you’re cutting into my distribution network and not when you’re using my contacts without compensation.” I lean forward slightly. “This ends now.”
“Or what?” Angelo speaks for the first time. “You start a war over some docks?”
“I don’t start wars. I end them.” I keep my voice even, controlled. “But I prefer to solve problems through conversation. Which is why we’re here, at a charity gala, being civilized.”
Matteo studies me for a long moment. “What do you propose?”
“Redirect your operations. There are other routes into the city. Use them. Stay out of Red Hook, and we have no problem.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Then I make it very difficult for you to operate anywhere in New York. Customs gets tipped off about your shipments. The port authority starts inspecting every container with your name on it. Your buyers start getting arrested.” I pause. “Or we can skip all that and handle it the old way. Your choice.”
Matteo knows what “the old way” means. Blood. Bodies. A war neither of us can afford.
“We’ll redirect,” he says finally. “But I want something in return.”
“What?”
“Brooklyn Heights. There’s a building there, perfect for our operations. But it’s in your territory. I want permission to use it.”
I consider this. Brooklyn Heights isn’t critical to my operations. And giving him something makes this feel like a negotiation instead of a surrender.
“Fine. But you pay tribute. Five percent of whatever moves through that building.”
“Three percent.”
“Four. And that’s my final offer.”
Matteo extends his hand. “Deal.”
We shake, and the tension in the alcove dissipates. Angelo looks disappointed. He probably wanted a fight.
“One more thing,” Matteo says. “My wife is having a birthday party next month. You and Savannah should come. Show of good faith.”
“We’ll be there.”
We return to the main ballroom, and I find Savannah still with the wives. She’s laughing at something Katya said, completely at ease.
When she sees me, she excuses herself and joins me. “How did it go?” she asks quietly.
“Deal’s done. They’re backing off.”
“Good. Because Irina was about to invite us to their summer house in the Hamptons, and I wasn’t sure how to respond.”
“We’re going to her birthday party next month.”
“Oh, wow,” She says, taking my arm. “Do I need to buy a gift?”
“Probably. Ask Natasha and Katya what she likes.”
We stay at the gala for another hour, making appearances, talking to people who think we’re just another wealthy couple supporting children’s healthcare.
In the car ride home, she’s quiet. I watch her stare out the window at the city passing by.
