“Hand him over with the documents,” Dante said. “Ensure the federal prosecutor gets everything on James Donovan’s offshore accounts.”

James began to wail as they dragged him down the wooden planks.

“I can’t go to federal prison!” James screamed. “Dante, please!”

His voice faded into the distance as they shoved him into the back of an unmarked black SUV.

Dante turned his attention to Moretti, who was still groaning on the wet wood.

Moretti looked up, his face pale, sweat mixing with the cold mist on his forehead.

“You think this changes anything, Russo?” Moretti spat, coughing up a spot of blood. “My people will tear your docks apart by morning.”

Dante stepped closer, his heavy leather shoes clicking against the wood.

“Your people are currently being arrested,” Dante said softly.

Moretti froze, his eyes widening.

“The police are raiding your warehouse on 47th Street as we speak,” Dante said.

“You’re lying,” Moretti whispered.

“I do not lie about business, Lorenzo,” Dante said.

Dante took a small manila folder from inside his coat and tossed it onto Moretti’s lap.