Chapter 2 - The Gathering Storm
The rain hammered against the bulletproof glass of the SUV as we tore through the slick streets of Brooklyn. Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a switchblade. Marco sat in the front passenger seat, his fingers flying across a encrypted satellite phone, coordinating the mobilization of three hundred soldiers stationed across the five boroughs.
In the back, I adjusted my cuffs, my eyes fixed on the small, damp form of Miss Rose resting in my lap. Every thread of that fabric smelled faintly of lavender and vanilla—the exact scent of Lily’s hair when she would run up to me after dinner, clutching a drawing she’d made of a terrifying, giant monster that looked suspiciously like me, complete with a scowl and a tiny crown of gold ink.
“We have eyes near the perimeter of the Red Hook shipping yards,” Marco said, not turning around. “Colombo has locked down Piers 12 through 16. Heavy fortification. Automatic weapons, thermal scopes, and at least fifty known triggermen from his personal detail. They’re treating this like a fortress.”
“Let them build their castle,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “A castle is just a tomb with better architecture if you don't have a way out.”
“And Niko?” Marco asked, hesitating for a fraction of a second.
“Has he been secured?”
“Striking team intercepted him at his safehouse in Queens five minutes ago. He tried to flush a burner phone down the toilet, but my boys fished it out before it dissolved. It’s got incoming calls from a secure line registered out of a shell corporation owned by Colombo's shipping front.”
A cold fury washed over me. Niko Bellini. I had pulled him out of a gutter in Naples ten years ago, paid for his mother’s medical treatments, and made him a capo. He had sworn a blood oath on my mother’s grave. And for what? A few extra points on dock smuggling profits? Or perhaps pure jealousy over the shifting dynamic in my household.
“Bring him to the abandoned rail yard on 4th Street,” I ordered. “I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes. I want to have a little conversation with my dear friend before we pay a visit to Mr. Colombo.”
When our vehicle slid to a halt beside the rusted skeleton of the old rail yard, the rain had slowed to a miserable drizzle. Niko was already there, shoved to his knees in the mud by two of my heaviest enforcers, his expensive silk suit ruined, his nose bleeding profusely.
I stepped out of the car, the puddles parting beneath my leather shoes. I didn't rush. Every step was deliberate, calculated, heavy with the weight of an empire ready to crush a traitor.
Niko looked up, shivering, his eyes wide with stark terror. “Dominic! Boss, listen to me! It’s a setup! The Colombos grabbed my cousin, they threatened to—!”
I didn't let him finish. I crouched down so we were eye to eye, grabbing a fistful of his ruined collar and pulling him close enough to smell the copper of his own blood.
“Niko,” I whispered, so softly it was barely audible over the hum of the idling engine. “Do you remember what you said to me on the day you earned your buttons? You looked me in the eye and swore that if you ever betrayed the table, your blood would water the concrete.”
“Boss—please—I have a family—”
“So did Elena,” I replied. “So does Lily.”
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I let go of him abruptly, standing up and dusting off my hands as if touching him had left a stain. “Marco, put him in the trunk. He’s going to Red Hook with us. If he survives the assault, he can spend the rest of his life sweeping the floors of my warehouse in chains. If he doesn't, well, the concrete will get its water after all.”
Marco nodded coldly, signaling the guards to drag the sobbing capo toward the rear of the convoy. I pulled my coat tighter around myself, feeling the shape of Miss Rose against my chest. The countdown had begun. Forty-eight hours was far too generous; Vincent Colombo wouldn't even survive the hour.
