Chapter 5 - Blood at the Docks
Tuesday midnight at Pier 42 was cold, dark, and drenched in a relentless coastal fog. The Hudson River lapped against the rust-eaten iron pillars of the abandoned warehouse, carrying the smell of salt and engine oil.
Inside the dark warehouse, three of my dummy cargo trucks were parked under the flickering sodium lights. Four of my men sat near the cabs, playing cards on an overturned crate, acting entirely oblivious.
Suddenly, the heavy corrugated iron doors of the warehouse were smashed inward as three black armored SUVs burst through the entrance, their high beams blinding the room.
Dozens of armed men in heavy tactical gear spilled out, led by Nikolai Volkov’s chief lieutenant, Sergei, and Marco Rossi himself—Vivien’s father.
"Nobody move!" Sergei screamed in a harsh Russian accent, raising an automatic rifle. "Hands on your heads! Now!"
Marco Rossi stepped forward, wearing a heavy mink coat, a cigar hanging from his mouth, looking around the warehouse with a triumphant, arrogant sneer.
"Check the trucks!" Marco ordered his men. "Dominic Moretti thinks he's the king of New York! Tonight, we take his weapons, his money, and by next week, his entire domain!"
The Russian mercenaries rushed to the back of the cargo trucks, throwing open the heavy rear doors.
Instead of crates of weapons or stacks of bearer bonds, they found empty steel interiors.
And on the floor of the middle truck sat a single, battery-powered loudspeaker.
A static click echoed through the warehouse, followed by my voice, cool and crystal clear, playing through the speaker:
"Hello, Marco. Welcome to Pier 42."
Marco froze, his cigar dropping from his lips onto the wet concrete. "What the...?"
Before Sergei could give an order, the dark ceiling rafters above them erupted with blinding tactical floodlights. The heavy shipping containers lining the warehouse walls swung open simultaneously.
Seventy Moretti soldiers, armed with automatic shotguns and rifles, stepped into the light, completely encircling Marco Rossi and Volkov’s men. At the front of the balcony stood Lorenzo, holding a heavy machine gun, looking down at them like a judgment from above.
"DROP YOUR WEAPONS!" Lorenzo roared, his voice echoing like thunder. "NOW!"
Panic exploded among the mercenaries. Sergei made the foolish mistake of trying to raise his rifle toward the rafters.
A single, suppressed rifle shot echoed from the shadows. Sergei dropped instantly, a clean hole drilled through his chest.
The remaining twenty Russian mercenaries immediately threw their weapons onto the floor, raising their hands in absolute terror.
Marco Rossi fell to his knees on the cold concrete, sobbing, pulling at his hair. "No! No! How did he know?! Vivien said... Vivien said he didn't suspect anything!"
I stepped out from the shadow of the main office container, dressed in a sleek black suit, flanked by four of my personal bodyguards. I walked slowly across the concrete floor, my handmade Italian shoes making no sound until I stopped three feet in front of my future father-in-law.
I looked down at the trembling old man.
"Vivien did her job, Marco," I said quietly, leaning down to meet his terrified eyes. "She found the safe. She took the photos. She planted the bug. She was a very good spy."
Marco looked up, tears running down his weathered cheeks. "Dominic... please! It was Volkov! He forced me! He threatened to kill my family!"
"You sold your daughter to a Russian dog, Marco," I said, my voice dropping into a register of absolute coldness. "And then you sent her into my home to poison my legacy. You didn't just cross the Moretti family... you brought war into my house."
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I turned my back on him, nodding to Lorenzo.
"Take Marco to the basement at Ravenwood," I ordered. "Keep him alive until Friday. He has a wedding to attend."
