Chapter 7 - The Confrontation at the Pier
The meeting was set for midnight at Pier 42—a quiet, industrial stretch of the San Diego docks owned entirely by Vale Harbor Group.
Thick coastal fog rolled across the wooden planks, swallowing the yellow lights of the shipping cranes.
Dominic stood near the edge of the pier, dressed in a dark trench coat, his hands resting in his pockets. Behind him stood Marcus and four heavily armed private security guards.
A dark limousine pulled up to the pier, its engine purring softly in the foggy silence.
The rear door opened, and Victor Vance stepped out.
He was sixty-five years old, thin as a razor, with silver hair brushed sleekly back and a cold, reptilian smile. He wore a heavy fur-collared coat and held a silver-headed cane. Behind him, four massive men in dark leather jackets stepped out of two trailing SUVs.
"Dominic," Victor sneered, his voice raspy from decades of cigars. "Look at you. Living like a king on the Pacific while Chicago remembers your father's unpaid debts."
"My father paid his debts forty years ago, Victor," Dominic said smoothly. "And you owe my family a life."
Victor laughed, a dry, hollow sound. "Your mother was a weak woman who didn't know her place. Just like that little waitress you’ve been parading around town. Word travels fast, Dominic. People say you’ve gone soft. They say a pretty face made you walk away from three hundred million dollars."
Dominic didn't flinch. He took one step toward Victor. "I didn't walk away from anything. I took Ellery's company, I took his land, and I gave it to people who actually build things. What have you built lately, Victor? Besides cemetery plots?"
Victor's smile vanished. He raised his silver cane, pointing it at Dominic's chest. "I built an empire that stretches from Lake Michigan to the Gulf, kid. And I'm taking thirty percent of your West Coast shipping routes starting tonight. Or that beautiful new rehab center you built in La Jolla goes up in smoke by morning."
Dominic’s expression didn't change, but his eyes flashed with lethal intent.
"You always were predictable, Victor," Dominic said softly. He tapped a small button on his collar mic.
Instantly, bright, high-powered floodlights snapped on from three massive shipping container cranes above the pier, bathing Victor Vance and his men in a sea of blinding white light.
From behind the shipping containers, dozens of uniformed officers from the Waterfront Police and Federal Maritime Security stepped forward, their weapons drawn and raised.
At the front of the police line stood District Attorney Victoria Vance—no relation to Victor, but his worst nightmare.
"Victor Vance!" DA Cross announced over a bullhorn. "Put your hands where we can see them! You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit extortion, federal racketeering, and interstate threats!"
Victor’s men panicked, dropping their weapons onto the wooden planks and putting their hands in the air.
Victor stood frozen in the floodlights, his silver cane slipping from his gloved hand into the dark water below. He glared at Dominic with pure, unadulterated hatred.
"You set me up!" Victor roared. "You brought the feds into family business?!"
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Dominic walked right up to Victor as the federal agents moved in to snap handcuffs onto his wrists.
"My family business is legitimate, Victor," Dominic said, leaning down to whisper in the old gangster's ear. "And as for my mother... she sends her regards."
