Chapter 4 - The War in the Rain
The war for Boston did not make the morning news.
It happened in the shadows, behind locked warehouse doors, in dark alleyways, and along the fog-covered docks of the Atlantic coastline.
Over the next seventy-two hours, while Evelyn remained unconscious in the private medical wing, Adrian Moretti dismantled the Russian Syndicate piece by piece with surgical, terrifying cruelty.
Three Russian illegal casinos in South Boston were burned to the ground before midnight.
Two massive drug shipments arriving at Port Newark were intercepted, seized, and dumped into the ocean.
By the third night, rain poured over New York City in heavy, blinding sheets.
Inside a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park, Viktor Dragunov stood behind his bulletproof glass windows, holding a glass of amber vodka.
His phone buzzed on the mahogany desk.
Dragunov picked it up. “Yes?”
“Viktor... they’re all dead,” a panicked voice rasped through the speaker over the heavy sound of gunfire. “The Moretti family... they breached the Brooklyn warehouse! Adrian himself is here! He brought fifty men—!”
The sound of an explosion cut the caller off, followed by the cold, heavy march of tactical boots through the speaker.
Dragunov’s glass shattered in his hand as he squeezed it too hard. “Fool! Secure the penthouse elevators! Call our security detail!”
Before Dragunov could move toward his safe, the heavy oak doors of his penthouse blew inward with a deafening blast.
Smoke and dust filled the luxurious room.
Through the haze walked Adrian Moretti.
He wore a dark tactical coat, soaked in rain and grease. He held a silenced pistol in his right hand. Behind him, dozens of Russian bodyguards lay disarmed or incapacitated in the hallway.
Dragunov reached for a chrome revolver resting on his desk, but before his fingers could touch the steel, Adrian fired a single shot.
The bullet tore cleanly through Dragunov’s right hand, pinning his palm to the mahogany desk.
Dragunov shrieked in agony, falling to his knees, his blood staining his expensive Persian rug.
Adrian walked over smoothly, stepping on Dragunov’s wounded hand to pin him completely to the floor. He pressed the cold, suppressed barrel of his pistol directly between Dragunov’s eyes.
“Adrian... wait!” Dragunov gasped, sweating profusely, terror stripping away his ruthless reputation. “It was business! Just business! You took my shipping lines! I offered you a compromise!”
“You sent a sniper to shoot a seven-year-old boy,” Adrian said, his voice flat, devoid of anger, which made it ten times more terrifying. “And you shot the woman who protected him.”
“She was just a nanny!” Dragunov cried out, his voice cracking. “A meaningless servant! Why do you care about a nameless girl?!”
Adrian stared down at the man who had ordered the destruction of his life.
“She is not a servant,” Adrian said softly. “She is the heart of my home. And you broke her.”
Thwip.
The silent shot echoed through the penthouse.
May you like
Adrian turned on his heel, stepping over Dragunov’s body as Marco held open the door.
“Burn the building,” Adrian ordered coldly as he walked into the rain. “We’re going home.”
