The heat in the lower engine room was stifling, hovering near a hundred and twenty degrees. The colossal sixteen-cylinder diesel engines thudded in rhythmic, deafening unison, shaking the steel catwalk beneath their boots. Salvatore Moretti circled, holding his stiletto low, his left arm wrapped in a heavy wool sweater to serve as a makeshift buckler. Despite his sixty years, the former Underboss moved with the sinewy, vicious grace of a…
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