Chapter 3 - Blood on the Harbor
The wind off the Atlantic cut through the dark containers at the Port of Boston like razor blades. Rain poured off the metal corrugated roofs, splashing into puddles tainted with oil and salt.
Declan Vance stood under the shadow of a giant crane, clad in a long black trench coat, his silver signet ring glistening in the ambient yellow light of the industrial floodlamps. Around him stood eight men in dark suits, their hands tucked inside heavy coats, eyes scanning the docks with military precision.
At his feet, tied to a wooden chair, was a man in his late forties, bleeding heavily from his nose and lip.
“I’m going to ask you once more, Julian,” Declan said, his voice terrifyingly calm despite the howling wind. “Who paid you to hijack the shipment coming in from Rotterdam?”
Julian spit a mouthful of blood onto the wet pavement. He laughed through broken teeth. “You think you own Boston, Vance? You’re getting soft. Sitting in your big fortress on the hill. Word on the street is you’re distracted.”
Declan stepped forward. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't show anger. He simply leaned down until his eyes were inches from Julian’s.
“Distracted?” Declan murmured.
“The Irish syndicate is coming back,” Julian sneered. “Liam O’Connor is back from Dublin. He knows about your territory. He knows you’ve been burning through money hiring private medical specialists all day. He thinks the big, bad Declan Vance has found himself a soft spot.”
Declan’s eyes narrowed into slits of deadly gray.
The Irish alliance had been dormant for five years, banished to the fringes of the state after Declan took full control of the eastern supply lines. If Liam O’Connor was back, it meant war was brewing. And if O’Connor knew about his sudden interest in pediatric specialists, it meant there was a rat inside his immediate circle.
Declan reached out, grabbed Julian by the throat, and squeezed gently—just enough to crush the breath out of him.
“Liam O’Connor can bring every gun in Dublin,” Declan whispered into Julian’s ear. “It will only give me more bodies to sink into the bay. Where is he staying?”
“I... I don't know!” Julian gasped, clawing at Declan’s massive hand. “I swear! He just sent the cash through an offshore account!”
Declan released his grip. Julian slumped forward, coughing violently.
Declan turned to his right-hand man, Viktor—a hulking Russian with a scarred face and cold eyes who had served the Vance family for two decades.
“Clean this up,” Declan ordered, wiping his hands with a white handkerchief. “And find out who gave O’Connor the information about my private medical calls today.”
“Yes, Boss,” Viktor said, drawing a suppressed firearm. “And the Irish?”
“Tell the boys to double the guard around the estate,” Declan said, his eyes darkening as a sudden image of Clara and Leo flashed through his mind. “If a single unsanctioned breath is drawn within five miles of my house, tear it to pieces.”
Declan turned and walked back toward his armored SUV. The rain washed over him, but inside his chest, a fire was burning that he hadn't felt in ten long years.
When he had held that infant earlier that afternoon, feeling the tiny, frantic heart pounding against his own chest, something broken inside him had clicked back into place. For ten years, Declan had fought only to protect his territory, to hoard power out of spite for the world that had stolen his brother.
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Now, for the first time, he had something fragile to shield. Something pure.
And he would burn all of Boston to ash before he let anyone touch it.
