Chapter 4 - THE SHORES OF RUMSONThe estate of Frankie "The Hammer" Moretti sat on three private acres along the Shrewsbury River in Rumson, New Jersey.
Surrounded by ten-foot wrought-iron security gates, security cameras, and four patrolling guards with tactical dogs, the multi-million-dollar brick mansion was built to look like a fortress.
Inside the private study on the second floor, Frankie Moretti was pouring himself a double glass of aged bourbon. He was forty-five, short, stocky, with thinning black hair and a tailored Italian suit that stretched tight across his broad stomach.
The heavy oak doors of the study burst open.
Damon stumbled into the room, holding an ice pack against his shattered jaw. Vance was leaning heavily on the shoulder of young Leo, his eyes swollen shut, blood still staining his torn collar.
Frankie set his bourbon down on his mahogany desk, his eyebrows drawing together in immediate fury.
“What the hell happened to you?” Frankie barked. “Did the state troopers jump you?”
Damon spat a mouthful of blood into a brass trash can near the door. “No, Boss. We... we had a situation at a roadside diner out on Route 17.”
Frankie spat out a contemptuous laugh. “A diner? Three of my earners got their teeth kicked in by a diner cook?”
“It wasn't a cook, Frankie!” Damon stammered, stepping closer to the desk, his voice trembling with genuine terror. “It was him. He’s alive.”
Frankie’s laughter died instantly. His posture straightened. “Who’s alive?”
“Matteo Marquez,” Damon whispered.
Frankie went completely frozen. The color slowly drained from his face until his tan skin looked like damp parchment. “Matteo is dead. He took three rounds in the docks back in '23. The body was never found because he dropped into the river.”
“He’s alive, Boss!” Damon insisted, clutching his broken jaw. “He broke Vance’s face with a glass jar in half a second! He unloaded my .38 with one hand! And he gave me a message for you.”
Frankie stepped around his desk, grabbing Damon by the lapels of his wet coat, leaning in close. “What message?”
“He said... he said if your men ever step near his wife again, he’s going to come here to Rumson and burn your fleet to the water line.”
Frankie let go of Damon’s coat, staggering back a step against his desk.
Matteo Marquez. The man who had run the entire East Coast waterfront for a decade before refusing to participate in the narcotics trade. The man Frankie’s own uncle had ordered executed three years ago.
Frankie’s mind raced. If Matteo was alive, hiding out as a civilian in a small town, it meant he was vulnerable. He didn't have his syndicate of fifty armed soldiers anymore. He didn't have his armored sedans or his police contacts.
He was just one man with a waitress wife.
A slow, vicious smile spread across Frankie Moretti’s face as he picked up his glass of bourbon and took a long sip.
“He’s alone,” Frankie whispered to himself, his eyes gleaming with dark ambition. “The legendary Waterfront Ghost is living like a dog in the woods, married to a diner girl.”
Frankie turned to his chief enforcer, a towering man named Marco who stood near the door.
“Marco,” Frankie commanded coldly. “Gather eight of our best guys from the dock crew. Fully armed. I want us at that diner by tomorrow night.”
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“You want him dead, Boss?” Marco asked.
“No,” Frankie grinned, his teeth stained red with wine. “I want him on his knees. We take his wife first. Let’s see how much of a ghost he is when he’s watching her pay for what he did to my men.”
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