Continue reading—the next chapter reveals everything.

-8-

The rain hammered relentlessly against the corrugated steel roof of Pier 42, creating a deafening white noise that seemed to isolate Massimo and Dean from the rest of the world. The junior associates had long since fled into the shadows, leaving only Marcus and the loyal enforcers standing guard by the perimeter.

"Why, Dean?" Massimo asked, his voice dangerously quiet, though every muscle in his frame was coiled like a spring. "Twelve years. You sat at my right hand. I trusted you with my life, my family name, my blood."

Dean let out a harsh, bitter laugh, tossing his half-smoked cigar onto the concrete and grinding it out beneath the heel of his expensive Italian leather shoe.

"Trust?" Dean spat, stepping forward defiantly, abandoning all fear in the face of inevitable doom. "You called it trust, Massimo. I called it servitude. For twelve years, I was the one who broke the bones, who cleaned up the mess, who took the risks while you sat on your throne like an untouchable god, taking all the credit and all the wealth. When the old man died, it should have been my name on the syndicate ledger. Instead, you handed me a title of servitude and kept me on a leash."

"So you sold out to the Bellandi family," Massimo stated flatly.

"I didn't sell out to anybody," Dean corrected sharply. "I partnered with them. We planned the Brooklyn Avenue strike together. Dr. Hale synthesized the neurotoxin to keep you docile while I systematically consolidated control over the board of directors. Once Camille and I finalized the merger next month, your signature would have been forged on the transfer documents, and you would have died quietly of 'natural spinal complications' in your sleep."

Dean smiled, a cruel, triumphant expression. "And the best part? Everyone would have wept at your funeral. They would have praised me for holding the family together after the tragedy. It was a masterpiece, Massimo."

"A masterpiece," Massimo repeated softly. He raised his right hand—holding not just a cane, but a heavy, matte-black Sig Sauer pistol he had drawn from his coat holster with chilling speed.

Dean’s eyes widened in sudden, stark terror. He took a hasty step back, raising his hands. "Wait, Massimo—think about this! If you kill me here, the entire organization will fracture! The unions will revolt, the ports will shut down, and the commission will tear the family apart!"

"Let them," Massimo said coldly. "A house built on betrayal deserves to burn to the ground."

Before Dean could lunge or reach for his own weapon, Massimo pulled the trigger.

The gunshot roared through the cavernous warehouse like a clap of thunder. A single red bloom blossomed across the center of Dean Foster’s chest. The man who had orchestrated the downfall of the Rinaldi empire staggered backward, his eyes fixed on Massimo with an expression of profound shock, before collapsing heavily onto the cold concrete floor.

He didn't move again.

Massimo stood over the body for a long, silent moment, his breathing heavy, the adrenaline beginning to fade and leaving a dull, throbbing ache in his healing spine. He lowered the gun slowly, his gray eyes as dead and cold as the winter sea.