Chapter 9 - The Reckoning at the Terminal
The Newark shipping terminal was an apocalyptic landscape of towering steel cranes, rain-slicked tarmac, and massive red container boxes stretching out toward the dark, churning waters of Newark Bay.
Flames licked hungrily out of the shattered windows of Sector Four, casting long, dancing shadows across the wet concrete. Sirens wailed in the distance, but they were miles away—slowed by slashed tires and blocked access roads orchestrated by Dante’s men.
Dante Moretti stood near the edge of the pier, watching the fire eat through millions of dollars worth of imported electronics. He held a lit cigarette between his fingers, smiling as the heat warmed his face against the freezing January wind.
"A bit dramatic, don't you think, Dante?"
Dante spun around, his cigarette dropping into a puddle of oily water.
Walking toward him across the wet tarmac, flanked by Paulie and four armed terminal guards, was Victoria Callahan. She wore her black ballistic coat, her dark hair whipped by the coastal wind, her expression as unyielding as the concrete beneath her boots. She carried no weapon in her hands, but the way she walked made it clear she didn't need one to command the space.
"Victoria," Dante sneered, recovering his composure as he slid his hand toward the revolver in his waistband. "I hear you’ve been having trouble keeping the lights on in your new empire."
"The lights are fine, Dante," Victoria said, stopping ten feet away. Her dark eyes swept the burning warehouse behind him, then snapped back to his face. "It’s the trash piling up around the docks that’s becoming a nuisance."
Dante’s smile faded into a snarl. He whipped out his revolver, leveling it straight at Victoria’s chest. "You and your little sewing circle think you can push the Moretti family out of New York? Your husband built this empire on blood and fear, Victoria. You’re just a ghost playing dress-up in his chair."
"My husband built an empire on arrogance," Victoria corrected, her voice cutting through the hiss of the burning warehouse like a razor. "And he’s currently watching television in a prison cell because he thought he was the smartest man in the room."
She took one deliberate step forward.
Dante cocked the hammer of his gun. "One step closer, and I scatter your brains across the bay."
"Try it," a cold voice echoed from the shadows behind Dante.
From between two stacked shipping containers, Elena Russo stepped out, holding a chrome-plated shotgun level with Dante’s spine. Simultaneously, Beatrice Moretti stepped out from the opposite side, blocking the access road with a second tactical squad.
Dante’s eyes widened in sudden, frantic terror as he realized the trap had snapped shut before he even pulled the trigger. He wasn't the hunter tonight; he was the bait.
"You're surrounded, Dante," Victoria said softly, closing the remaining distance between them until the barrel of his gun was inches from her coat. "And unlike your brother, who gets to live out his days in a hospital bed, you chose the wrong night to test the new board of directors."
Dante’s finger twitched on the trigger—
Crack.
Paulie’s suppressed rifle spoke once. Dante’s hand exploded in a spray of blood and shattered bone, sending his revolver clattering uselessly across the wet concrete.
Dante shrieked, clutching his mangled hand to his chest, dropping heavily to his knees in the mud.
May you like
Victoria looked down at him, her face an impassive mask of absolute authority.
"Take him to the sub-level garage beneath the Meridian Grand," Victoria instructed Paulie without breaking eye contact with the broken man at her feet. "Let him room with Ethan. They can reminisce about the good old days when men actually knew how to run an empire."
