Chapter 2 - The Fire on Pier 42
Dominic didn't hesitate. He gestured to his chief of security, Marco. "Take six men. Get to Pier 42 now. If my brother has a single scratch on him, kill everyone inside."
Marco nodded and vanished through the heavy oak doors.
Charles Mercer tried to slip toward the exit, but two guards blocked his path, grabbing his arms and forcing him to his knees.
Gregory Volk sneered, leaning back in his chair. "So, the great Dominic Rossi relies on a woman with a mop to conduct his business. How embarrassing."
Dominic walked around the mahogany table, stopping right beside Maeve. The scent of rain, expensive cedar cologne, and dangerous authority radiated off him. He looked down at her small, fragile frame.
"You speak Russian," Dominic noted. "What else do you speak?"
"English, Spanish, French, Italian street dialects, Albanian, Romani slang, and basic Turkish," Maeve answered without flinching. "That makes eight."
Dominic turned back to Gregory. Gregory unleashed a torrent of bitter Albanian insults, spat on the rug, and then turned to the older man sitting in the corner—Uncle Salvatore Rossi, Dominic’s trusted advisor and late father's brother.
Gregory spoke to Salvatore in a rare, localized Calabrian dialect: "The trap is set. When your nephew goes to the hospital for his brother, my men will take out his motorcade."
Salvatore nodded almost imperceptibly, wiping his spectacles with a silk handkerchief.
May you like
Maeve caught the exchange instantly. Her breath hitched.
"Mr. Rossi," Maeve whispered, leaning toward Dominic. "Your uncle just gave Gregory the signal. Salvatore is the one who gave Volk your brother's location."
