Chapter 9 - The Reckoning on the Docks
Julian was fast, but Maggie was faster.
Before Julian could raise his pistol toward Rafferty, Maggie seized the heavy silver ice bucket from the champagne table and hurled it directly into his face.
Champagne, crushed ice, and crystal exploded against Julian’s nose. He stumbled back with a shriek of pain, his gun discharging into the ceiling, shattering a thousand crystal drops from the chandelier.
Rafferty closed the distance in a single stride, catching Julian’s wrist in a vise-like grip and driving him into the mahogany stage. The pistol clattered across the floor.
Anthony Voss screamed in his wheelchair, clawing at his blanket for a concealed weapon, but Moses Hardigan’s massive hand clamped down over the old man’s withered wrist, pinning it to the armrest.
“Don’t do it, Anthony,” Moses rumbled. “You’re too old to die in a fistfight.”
Julian thrashed beneath Rafferty’s weight, blood pouring from his broken nose. “You think this saves you, Kowalic? My father owns the judges! We own the harbor authority! You’ll be ruined by morning!”
“The harbor authority was raided twenty minutes ago,” Rafferty whispered into Julian’s ear, his voice freezing cold. “Federal agents from the Eastern District are currently opening the cargo containers you left at Pier 7. The containers I reported to them at 3:00 this morning.”
Julian’s eyes widened with pure horror. “You called the Feds on your own docks?”
“Those aren't my docks anymore,” Rafferty said.
He hauled Julian to his feet by the collar and shoved him toward the center of the room, right into the waiting circle of Chesapeake Market fishermen.
Mr. Delaney stepped forward, his eyes burning with years of suppressed humiliation. “We’ve been waiting a long time to settle our shipping fees, Mr. Voss.”
Julian looked around at the ring of calloused hands, iron hooks, and unforgiving eyes. The arrogance drained from his face, replaced by the pathetic, sniveling terror of a cornered coward.
Helena Kowalic stood at the edge of the mezzanine, leaning on her cane, watching her grand design crumble into ash. When Rafferty looked up at her, he did not raise a weapon. He merely looked at her with absolute, final detachment.
“You’re done, Mother,” Rafferty said, his voice echoing in the vast room. “Pack your bags. The Kowalic house belongs to the harbor trust now.”
Helena staggered back, her cane trembling, before turning and vanishing into the shadows of the private rooms.
Maggie stood beside Rafferty, her emerald gown torn at the hem, her hair coming loose from its silver combs. She looked down at old Anthony Voss, whose pale, trembling lips were muttering incomprehensible curses.
She reached into her evening bag, pulled out the yellowed Polaroid of her father, and tossed it into the old man’s lap.
“Look at him, Anthony,” Maggie commanded.
The old man looked down at the photograph with trembling, terrified eyes.
“He didn't turn the wheel,” Maggie said softly. “And neither did I.”
Outside, the sirens began to wail—a chorus of federal cruisers, state police, and harbor patrol descending upon the Bellevue Club.
Maggie turned to Rafferty.
He looked at her, his breathing heavy, his shirt stained with Julian’s blood and his own reopened stitches.
“You okay?” he asked.
Maggie looked at the fishermen standing around them, then at her own scarred hands.
May you like
“I’m better than okay,” she said. “I’m clocked out.”
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