Chapter 4 - The Trade at Pier 42
Midnight at Pier 42 was cold, wet, and smelled of salt and rust. Fog rolled off the East River like a thick gray shroud, swallowing the hulls of abandoned shipping containers.
Three black SUVs pulled onto the concrete apron of the dock, their headlights cutting through the mist.
From the shadow of a rusted warehouse, a dozen armed men stepped out, their dark coats wet with rain. At their center stood Nikolai Volkov—a older man with silver hair, a scarred neck, and a heavy cane tipped with solid silver. On his right hand, the silver wolf ring caught the glare of the SUV headlights.
The door of the center SUV opened.
Alessandro stepped out alone. He wore no coat despite the freezing rain, his dark suit tailored and pristine. He walked to the middle of the pier, stopping twenty feet from Volkov.
"You're late, Moretti," Volkov sneered, his accent thick and grating. "Where is the girl? Where is the sweet little bride-to-be and her daughter?"
"They are in a safe place, Nikolai," Alessandro said, his tone utterly casual, as if he were discussing the weather. "Where you will never reach them."
Volkov chuckled—a dry, rattling sound. He raised his radio. "My men are standing outside her shop in Brooklyn right now with six gallons of accelerant. One word from me, and your precious restorer's life work goes up in flames."
"You mean the men sitting in the back of Marco's van right now?" Alessandro asked politely.
Volkov's smile froze.
Alessandro pulled a satellite tablet from his pocket and tossed it onto the wet concrete between them. The screen showed a live feed of Atlantic Avenue. Four of Volkov's henchmen were currently zip-tied and lying face down on the sidewalk, surrounded by eight of Marco’s heavily armed security team.
"Did you really think Clara Brooks wouldn't tell me about the secondary surveillance route?" Alessandro said softly. "While your man was busy taking photos in my ballroom, Clara noticed the second vendor badge hanging near the service elevator. She gave us the license plate of your lookout van before we even left the estate."
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Volkov’s face twisted in blind fury. He reached for his silver-tipped cane, revealing a hidden blade inside the handle. "You think you're clever, Moretti?! You came here alone! I have twelve guns pointed at your chest!"
"He's not alone," a clear, strong voice echoed from the top of a shipping container directly above them.
