Chapter 3 - The Wolves of Pier 4
The black SUV sped through the rain toward the abandoned shipping docks along the riverfront.
Inside the quiet vehicle, Dominic sat with his arms folded, staring out the tinted window as the golden lights of the city bridges blurred against the mist.
Raymond Vance.
The Assistant District Attorney had made his career over the last five years presenting himself as the shining beacon of anti-corruption in the city. He had run campaigns on cleaning up the docks, dismantling the syndicates, and prosecuting organized crime. He was frequently featured on the evening news, wearing expensive suits and delivering self-righteous speeches about law and order.
“It makes sense,” Dominic murmured softly into the dark cabin.
Tony turned around from the front passenger seat. “What makes sense, Boss?”
“Morales—Clara’s late husband,” Dominic said, his mind putting the puzzle together with deadly clarity. “He wasn't a criminal. He was the chief auditor for the Waterfront Commission. Two years ago, five hundred million dollars in city infrastructure funds vanished through fraudulent port contracts.”
“And Vance was the prosecutor overseeing the investigation,” Tony realized, his eyes widening. “The investigation that suddenly went cold when Morales died in a suspicious hit-and-run last year.”
“Morales didn't lose that money,” Dominic said, his jaw tightening into iron. “He found out Vance was the one stealing it. Before they killed Morales, he hid the original ledgers with his wife. Vance waited until the noise died down, then sent the Keller brothers to grab Clara and the evidence before she could ever figure out what she had.”
Tony let out a harsh laugh. “A dirty prosecutor using cheap enforcers to kidnap a working mother, while preaching about justice on TV. This city is filthy.”
“Not for long,” Dominic said coldly.
The SUV ground to a halt behind a row of rusted shipping containers two hundred yards from Warehouse 12 on Pier 4.
The rain was coming down harder now, drumming against the steel roof of the vehicle. Through the darkness, the massive, dilapidated corrugated-iron warehouse stood near the edge of the dark, churning river water. Two luxury black sedans were parked near the open loading bay, surrounded by four armed men in expensive coats holding automatic weapons.
Inside the warehouse, a single high-powered halogen light hung from the wooden rafters, illuminating the wet concrete floor.
Tied to a heavy wooden chair beneath the light was Clara Morales.
Her dark hair was matted with sweat and rain, her clothes torn, her face bruised. Yet despite the pain, her dark eyes burned with an indomitable, fierce maternal defiance.
Standing across from her was Mason Keller—a taller, wilder version of his brother Caleb—holding a blood-stained crowbar. Sitting on an overturned wooden crate, casually wiping his gold-rimmed reading glasses with a silk handkerchief, was Assistant District Attorney Raymond Vance.
On a metal barrel between them lay a thick, leather-bound financial ledger covered in dust.
“I have to give your late husband credit, Clara,” Vance said, putting his glasses back on and flipping through the pages of the ledger with a satisfied smirk. “He was meticulous. Every bribe, every offshore account, every shell company I created over six years... he documented everything.”
Clara spat a mouthful of blood onto the concrete near Vance’s polished shoes. “You killed him. You murdered my husband.”
Vance didn't even flinch. He carefully closed the ledger and tucked it inside his leather briefcase.
“Your husband was an idealist, Clara. Idealists don't survive in this city,” Vance said smoothly, standing up and buttoning his coat. “And unfortunately for you, people who know too much don't survive either.”
He looked over at Mason Keller. “Finish it. Make sure the body is weighted down properly before you drop her in the river. I don't want anything floating up to the surface before the election next month.”
Mason grinned, revealing his shiny gold teeth, and weighed the heavy iron crowbar in his hand. “Consider it done, Mr. Vance. What about the kid?”
Clara let out a blood-curdling shriek, struggling wildly against the heavy ropes binding her wrists to the chair. “No! Leave my daughter alone! Leave Sophie out of this! Take me! Kill me! Just don't touch my baby!”
May you like
Vance smiled coldly as he picked up his briefcase. “Don't worry, Clara. A seven-year-old child alone in Westbridge won't last a week anyway. Nature will take care of her.”
Suddenly, the heavy steel roll-up door of the warehouse was ripped upward with a thunderous, screeching tear of metal!
