The Woman at the Docks (Grassi Framily)

It was about half an hour before the planned meeting time when a long black sedan pulled up, parking a few feet away from us. We couldn't see much through the dark tint that would get him a ticket in Jersey if he stuck around for too long, but we knew it was Lorenzo.

First, because the car was damn near a hundred grand.

Second because there were no parking signs all over the curb in front of the cafe. And the only person who would so blatantly ignore them would be Lorenzo—someone who gave the middle finger to damn near any convention or rule he'd come across.

He didn't cut the engine, something that had Lucky and I sharing a look, unsure what that might mean.

That he wasn't planning on staying long, most likely.

But whether that was because he was going to tell us that the commission was meeting, and there was no reason to have this meeting, or if he was just going to let us handle our own business, well, that was anyone's guess.

It was a long moment that the car idled before Lorenzo climbed out, unfolding an exceptionally long body—six-foot-four, he dwarfed even his own father.

He was fit without being massive, someone who dedicated more time in the gym than I did, and therefore, not someone I wanted to face up in a fight.

Little was known about Lorenzo's mother—Art's first wife who mysteriously disappeared decades ago—but it was clear that Lorenzo took after her more than his father.

Whereas Art was just shy of average height, thick around the middle, round-faced, and had been losing his hair since his twenties, Lorenzo was tall, built well, had a face full of sharper edges, a full head of black hair, and almost startling bright, piercing green eyes. They were made more intimidating by the fact that he had a nasty scar that ran through his eyebrow and eyelid then ended about an inch under his eye. I never learned where he'd gotten it, but it was a miracle he hadn't been blinded.

He was in a black suit with a gray shirt underneath, but everything was unusually rumpled, like he'd been in the same outfit for a long period of time.

"Made good time coming down from Pennsylvania," he said by way of greeting, moving around the hood of his car toward us. "Luca, Lucky," he greeted, offering his hand to each of us before taking his seat across from us. "Hey sweetheart," he greeted the waitress who managed to look both flattered and terrified at the same time. "Black coffee. Iced," he added. "Alright," he said when she walked away, leveling those intense eyes on me. "What a clusterfuck you have going on, huh?" he asked, calm, casual. But I knew this man well enough not to trust him at face-value.

"Yeah, it's been an interesting couple of days," I conceded.

"We don't support that shit up our way either," he told me, nodding. "Adult women who make that choice, that is a different story. I heard some of those girls were twelve and thirteen. Fucking disgusting."

"I know this is my father's place to do this conversation, but he is held up somewhere. If you want, I can track him down," I offered.

"He'll get here eventually. You two were always on the same page. I figure we can do this. I have shit I need to get back to."

"Alright. Well, what is going on in New York?"

"You know them. Fucking alarmists. They hear the word feds, and they think indictments are about to rain down on us all," he said, shaking his head. "Thanks, babe," he told the waitress. "We're all set here," he added, dismissing her.

"Speaking of indictments," Lucky said, nodding his head toward the street where Detective Lloyd was walking out of the cafe with a bag.

"Gentlemen," he said, inclining his chin. "Planning out your next RICO violation?" he asked.

"What? Because we're Italian-American, we must be wise guys?" Lorenzo asked, lifting a brow.

Unfazed, Lloyd snorted. "No, because you're wise guys, I'm calling you wise guys," he told him, moving about his day.

"That was pretty painless. Last week, my brother's kid was outside chasing a ball down the street when a cop stopped it and told him not to get too used to his father being home. Fucking pricks up by us. Taunting an eight-year-old kid."

"About the feds, we didn't officially call them. We called the cops," I told him. "We were at a loss for what else to do with those women and kids in there."

"I get that," Lorenzo agreed. "Shit happens. You'd call the cops if you had a heart attack too. I know the older guys are riled, but I will calm them down when I get back. If you're sure all they did while they were there was take out the women, and take pictures of that container."

"We had men there every step of the way. Plus Angelo added extra cameras before the cops showed up, so we could watch them from every angle to make sure all they did was handle the container."

"Alright. I'll take your word on that," he agreed, letting out a sigh. One that said our problems were just a cherry on the pie of his rough week.

"And we also needed to discuss the guns."

"The fucking Russians are on my father's ass," Lorenzo told us, grimacing.

"We've explained more than a few times that bringing guns into this port is going to create more problems than it fixes."