Chapter 10 - Pier 19
The industrial docks smelled of salt water, diesel exhaust, and rot. Pier 19 jutted into the black waters of the East River like a decaying tooth. An abandoned cargo warehouse stood at its end, surrounded by half a dozen luxury SUVs with blacked-out windows.
Luca’s tactical team bypassed the main gate by cutting through the adjacent railyard. The rain had slowed to a miserable, freezing drizzle.
Inside the secondary armored SUV parked three hundred yards away behind stacked shipping containers, Emily watched the live drone feed on a tablet screen. Her heart pounded violently against her ribs.
On the screen, infrared thermal cameras showed heat signatures inside the warehouse: at least fifteen armed guards patrolling the catwalks, three figures seated around a metal desk, and a fourth figure tied to a chair in the center of the concrete floor.
"Julian," Emily breathed, pressing her fingertips against the glass screen.
The heat signature in the chair was slumped, head hanging low, barely moving. But the faint glow of body heat confirmed he was still breathing.
Beside her, Marcus sat with an assault rifle across his knees. "The Don’s team has breached the eastern loading bay, Miss Emily. Keep your eyes on the feed."
On the thermal monitor, seven dark silhouettes moved like ghosts into the warehouse’s upper rafters. Luca was leading from the front.
Inside the warehouse, Salvatore Bellini—a bloated, gray-haired man in a camel-hair coat—raised a glass of scotch toward Dominic Falcone. Dominic was tall, wiry, with cold, dead eyes and slicked-back hair.
"To a new era," Salvatore toasted, his raspy voice carrying over the sound of waves lapping against the pier pilings. "With Luca Moretti disgraced and distracted by his runaway daughter, and your father out of commission, the ports belong to us."
Dominic sneered, glancing at the battered, bloody young man tied to the iron chair. Julian Falcone’s shirt was torn to shreds, his face bruised purple, but his eyes still smoldered with defiance.
"You really threw your life away for a Moretti whore, little brother?" Dominic mocked, walking over and slapping Julian’s swollen cheek with the back of his hand. "Look at you. Pathetic. Our father gave you an empire, and you wanted to paint pictures and play house with the enemy's daughter."
Julian spat blood onto Dominic’s polished leather shoe. "Emily... has more honor in her little finger... than you have in your entire rotten body, Dominic."
Dominic’s face twisted in rage. He pulled a silver-plated 9mm from his waistband and cocked the hammer, pressing the cold barrel directly against Julian’s temple.
"Any last words for your sweetheart, Julian? Because she's next."
"Dominic," a voice rang out from the pitch-black rafters above.
May you like
It was smooth, resonant, and dripping with lethal calm.
"You should have checked your perimeter."
