I thought leaving Elena was the only way to protect the woman I loved, until a hospital called and revealed she was starving, pregnant with my baby, and being hurt by someone inside my own family. / Chapter 9 / 53

Chapter 9 - Midnight at the Dry Docks

The old municipal dry docks on the industrial edge of the Brooklyn waterfront were a decaying labyrinth of rusted steel cranes, rotting wooden piers, and towering concrete warehouses lashed by the freezing salt spray of the East River.

It was the kind of place where things disappeared forever—evidence, debts, and bodies.

Leo cut the headlights of the SUV a quarter-mile away, rolling silently into the shadows behind a rusted shipping container stacked ten high.

I stepped out into the biting midnight wind, pulling my black overcoat tight around my chest. The air tasted of ozone, diesel, and rotting kelp. Behind me, Viktor and Leo stepped out in tandem, their boots crunching softly on the gravel, checking the chambers of their submachine guns with practiced, silent efficiency.

“Moretti brought at least thirty men,” Viktor murmured, scanning the upper catwalks of Warehouse 4 with infrared binoculars. “Positioned around the perimeter, heavy automatic weapons. They’re expecting a sit-down, Boss, not a slaughter.”

“Then let’s not disappoint them,” I replied coldly, drawing my SIG Sauer and checking the magazine.

We moved through the labyrinth of stacked containers like ghosts, hugging the deep shadows where the amber security lights failed to penetrate.

At the center of the shipyard, directly in front of the massive double bay doors of Warehouse 4, a single folding table had been set up under a harsh halogen work light. Sitting in a folding chair, casually cleaning his fingernails with a gold-plated switchblade, was Salvatore Moretti.

Moretti was a heavy-set man in his late fifties, draped in an expensive cashmere overcoat, flanked by four hulking personal bodyguards sporting tactical vests and Israeli-made Uzis.

As we stepped out from the shadows into the ring of light, Moretti stopped cleaning his nails, snapped his switchblade shut with a sharp click, and looked up with a wide, arrogant grin splitting his scarred face.

“Well, well, well,” Moretti drawled, spreading his arms wide as if welcoming an old friend to dinner. “The grieving widower graces us with his presence. I must admit, Mercer, I’m surprised you had the stomach to leave your girlfriend’s hospital bed. How is she? Still breathing? Or did Sophie’s hospitality finally finish the job?”

The name Sophie hung in the freezing air like a bad odor.

I didn't stop walking until I was six feet away from the table. Leo and Viktor flanked me slightly behind and to the left, their weapons still concealed beneath their coats, but ready to draw at a microsecond's notice.

“Sophie is gone, Moretti,” I said, my voice cutting through the wind with the chilling clarity of a falling blade. “And Marco is feeding the crabs at the bottom of the East River. You backed the wrong horse.”

Moretti’s arrogant grin faltered for a fraction of a second, his eyes narrowing as he processed the news. For a man who thought he had infiltrated the Mercer inner circle completely, learning that his key assets had been wiped out in a single evening was a bitter pill to swallow.

Then he recovered, chuckling darkly and shaking his head.

“A shame,” Moretti scoffed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. “Marco was a good earner. But it doesn't change the math, Luke. You’re standing out here in the open, with three men, against thirty of my best operators surrounding this entire yard. You think because you killed a couple of traitors that you can walk into my territory and dictate terms?”

He raised his right hand lazily, snapping his fingers twice.

From the shadows atop the surrounding shipping containers and the dark catwalks of Warehouse 4, thirty heavy automatic rifles clicked simultaneously, their laser sights painting a web of glowing red dots across my chest, my shoulders, and my face.

Moretti smiled triumphantly.

“Drop your weapon, Luke,” Moretti sneered, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Sign over the North River shipping lanes and the Brooklyn drug routes, and I’ll let you walk back to your precious hospital room. Refuse, and your child grows up an orphan before it even takes its first breath.”

The red laser dots danced across my coat, bright and menacing against the dark fabric.

I didn't blink. I didn't raise my hands. I simply stared across the table at Salvatore Moretti with a look of profound, chilling pity.

“You made one fatal mistake, Salvatore,” I said softly.