Page 20 of Deadly Confessions
I turn to Enzo. "Tell me."
He walks me through it. The fishing vessel arrived at 11:50 PM, ten minutes ahead of schedule because the sea was calm. Our five men began the offload at midnight. Standard procedure. Product packed in coolers marked as sardines, loaded onto a panel van parked at the dock.
At 12:14 AM, two vehicles blocked the dock entrance. A dark SUV and a panel van of their own. Eight men, armed, wearing balaclavas. They moved with coordination. Not street soldiers improvising. A planned assault with positions assigned, entry points covered, exits blocked.
Our men were pinned between the boat and the vehicles. Dario and Luca returned fire from behind the van. The others took cover on the vessel. The exchange lasted four minutes. Then the Ferrantes loaded our product into their van, left their vehicles blocking the dock, and disappeared.
Four minutes. Fifty kilos. Gone.
"The SUV?" I ask.
"Stolen. Torched in Scampia an hour ago."
"The van?"
"Also stolen. Probably also burning somewhere. We're looking."
I pull a chair to the table. Sit. Enzo slides a map of the port toward me, the dock marked in red, the Ferrante positions marked in blue.
I study it. The positions are too good. They didn't just know the dock and the time. They knew our approach route. They knew the van would be parked on the east side. They knew our men would be between the vessel and the van during the transfer window, exposed for approximately eight minutes while product moved from deck to vehicle.
Eight minutes of vulnerability. The Ferrantes built their entire assault around those eight minutes.
"This is the third time in four months," I say.
Enzo nods. He knows. We all know. The port tax ambush in March, when the Ferrantes intercepted a payment we were collecting from a shipping company. The warehouse breach in May, when they raided a storage facility in Secondigliano that we'd used for less than six weeks. Each time, they hadinformation they shouldn't have had. Timing. Locations. Numbers.
"Someone is feeding them," I say.
The room is quiet. Five men staring at the table or the floor or the wall behind my head. Nobody argues because there is nothing to argue with. The intelligence leak is no longer a theory. It is a fact sitting in this room like a sixth man at the table.
"I want every channel audited," I say. "Every communication pathway we've used in the last six months. Phone, courier, face-to-face. I want to know who knew about the Mergellina schedule. The full list. Not the captains. Everyone. Down to the men loading the van."
Enzo writes. He doesn't use phones for notes. Never has. A spiral notebook with a pencil, the kind a schoolchild uses. My father trusted him for thirty years. I've trusted him for two. The trust is earned daily, which is the only kind worth having.
"The Ferrantes are moving faster," I continue. "Six months ago they were probing. Testing. Hitting the edges. Now they're inside our operations. They're not guessing. They have a source, and the source is good."
I look at each captain. Vito, who runs the port operations. Carmine, who manages the Quartieri Spagnoli territory. Franco, who handles the political relationships. Massimo, who oversees distribution in Vomero and Fuorigrotta. Each of them has men under them. Each of those men has contacts, associates, debts, ambitions.
The leak could be anyone.
"Enzo, put together a team. Three people you trust with your life, not with your judgment. With your life. I want them working this full-time. Nothing else until we find the source."
He nods. Closes the notebook.
I stand. Walk to where Dario is sitting. Crouch in front of him. His bruises are darkening by the minute, spreading across his torso like storm clouds.
"Get to the doctor. The real one, not the butcher in Forcella."
"I'm fine, Don Sorrentino."
"You have two cracked ribs, Dario. You're fine when the doctor says you're fine."
He nods. I put my hand on his good shoulder. Squeeze once. Stand.
Luca is worse off than he's showing. The through-and-through missed the bone, Enzo tells me privately, but the exit wound is messy. He needs a proper surgeon. I tell Enzo to arrange it. Quiet. Private. Someone who doesn't file reports.
I leave the warehouse at 3:20 AM. The two men by the loading bay are still smoking. I wonder if it's the same cigarette or a new one. I don't ask.
