Chapter 7 - The Split in the Line
Sienna looked at Dawson’s face in the dim, yellow light of the industrial lamps and saw the absolute truth of his words. He wasn't bluffing. He was a man who had been raised to be a weapon, and he was perfectly willing to let the weapon explode if it meant he finally got to choose the target.
“Dawson, no!” she screamed, stepping forward and grabbing his shirt, her fingers sinking into the black silk. “Don't do this! If you blow this place, you’re exactly what your father said you were—a monster who only knows how to clean up with a shovel!”
“They have your father, Sienna,” Dawson said, his voice dropping into that private, quiet register that belonged only to her. “This is the only way you get him back.”
“I don't want him back if it costs your life!” she roared, her voice echoing through the iron rafters. “I don't care about the debt! I don't care about the money! I care about you, you idiot! Look at me! Drop the button!”
Dawson’s eyes widened, his jaw loosening as her words hit him like a physical blow. The dark, manic certainty in his expression cracked, revealing the terrified, lonely boy beneath the mafia heir.
Before Yuri could exploit the distraction, a sudden, blinding flash of light shattered the high windows of the loading bay.
The roof didn't collapse from C4. It exploded with the sound of flashbang grenades.
Four tactical enforcers from the Tenth Street crew dropped through the shattered skylights on nylon ropes, their automatic weapons firing in short, synchronized bursts before the Russians could even raise their weapons.
Rat-tat-tat.
Yuri fell backward into the dirt, his pistol clattering away as two rounds caught him in the shoulder. The other five collectors threw their hands up, their weapons falling into the dust as Rocco Miller stepped through the main entrance with twenty heavily armed men.
But Rocco wasn't looking at the Russians. He walked straight over to Dawson, his face a flat sheet of grey granite.
“Your father sends his regards, Dawson,” Rocco said, his voice carrying a cold, professional disappointment. “He knew the Russians were watching the girl. He used her phone to track the location. He wanted to see if you’d use the Beretta or the button.”
He looked at Sienna, who was already on her knees untying her father’s wrists. “The old man is clear, Miss Brooks. The Moretti organization has just purchased the Russian syndicate’s debt portfolio for forty cents on the dollar. Your father now works for us at the Cicero terminal. He’ll be cleaning the oil pans until he’s ninety.”
Dominic—no, Dawson—stared at Rocco, his hand slowly dropping the electronic detonator into the dirt. He looked down at Sienna, who was holding her weeping father against her chest, her hazel eyes fixed on him with a mixture of relief and an ancient, breaking sorrow.
“You knew,” Dawson whispered, his voice cracking completely. “You knew my father was tracking the phone.”
Sienna didn't look away. “I had to make it look real, Dawson. If I didn't bring you here, your father’s enforcers would have killed my dad at the apartment before the Russians even got him. I had to use the trap to clear the board.”
Dawson took a step backward, his face turning an ugly, hollow white as the realization hit him. She hadn't just saved her father; she had used him—his rage, his loyalty, his willingness to die—as the piece that forced Vittorio to move.
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“You’re a good assistant, Miss Brooks,” Dawson said, his voice dropping into an icy, dead rasp that carried no emotion at all. “You manage the ledger perfectly. But the contract is over.”
He turned on his heel and walked into the dark winter night, his black shirt disappearing into the snow before she could call his name.
