Three days after the hospital told me my newborn son was dead, I gathered my family to name my younger brother heir to everything I owned

The rain returned by nightfall, casting a dark gray veil over the city's industrial harbor. The docks of Sector 4 were quiet, save for the rhythmic sloshing of seawater against the rusted hulls of cargo ships. This was the heart of the Vance Shipping empire—the very asset Matteo and the Russians had sought to seize.

I stood inside the darkened second-story office of Pier 17, wearing a heavy black trench coat over my bulletproof vest. Beside me stood Marco, checking the magazine of his submachine gun. Below us, six black SUVs sat idling silently in the shadows of the shipping containers.

"Our informants inside the Bratva network confirm that Viktor Petrov himself is coming to this meeting," Marco reported, his voice low. "He believes he’s meeting Matteo to sign over the title deeds for the shipping berths."

"Petrov is arrogant," I said, gazing through the reinforced glass window. "He thinks the Moretti family is fractured and weak. He thinks he can march into my city and claim our heritage."

"What about Elena?" Marco asked. "She’s still screaming in the basement."

"Elena is a pawn," I replied. "She will be turned over to the federal authorities once this night is over, along with every piece of paper detailing St. Helena’s illegal operations. Let the state tear down the hospital piece by piece. But Petrov... Petrov belongs to us."

At precisely 11:00 PM, a fleet of three armored Mercedes sedans pulled onto the pier. Their headlights cut through the thick mist, illuminating the wet asphalt. Four heavily armed men stepped out of each vehicle, forming a defensive perimeter before opening the rear door of the center car.

Viktor Petrov stepped out. He was a tall, broad man in his fifties, with a scarred face and a silver-headed cane that concealed a blade. He looked around the empty pier with an expression of supreme confidence.

"He’s early," Marco noted.

"He’s eager," I corrected. "Let's go down."

We descended the steel staircase into the main warehouse. The large sliding doors were pulled open, letting in the cold sea breeze. My men remained hidden in the shadows of the crate stacks, waiting for my signal.

I stepped out into the open dock alone, my hands resting casually in the pockets of my coat.

Petrov stopped ten paces away, his enforcers instantly raising their rifles toward me. Petrov stared at me, his icy blue eyes narrowing in surprise, then amusement.

"Alessandro Moretti," Petrov said in his raspy, accented voice. "I was expecting your brother. He was supposed to have the signed deeds."

"My brother is currently entertaining guests in my basement, Viktor," I said calmly. "And the deeds are where they have always been—under the control of the Moretti family."

Petrov’s smile vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating glare. "So, the rumors from the hospital were true. The baby didn't die."

"My son is safe," I replied. "And your deal with Matteo is dead."

Petrov chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Do you really think you can stand here alone and dictate terms to me, Alessandro? Your family is broken. Your wife was an imposter. Your brother betrayed you. You are hanging on to a dying empire by a thread."

"You misunderstand my position, Viktor," I said softly. "I am not here to negotiate."

I raised my right hand and snapped my fingers.

Instantly, red laser dots appeared on Petrov’s chest and the foreheads of his twelve guards. High above us, on the roofs of the surrounding cranes and warehouses, my snipers had taken their positions. At the same time, the six black SUVs hidden in the shadows turned on their high-beam headlights, blinding Petrov’s men and trapping them in a crossfire of light.

Petrov’s guards froze, their hands trembling on their weapons. They knew that a single movement would result in their immediate destruction.

"You brought thirty million dollars into my city to buy my blood," I said, stepping closer until I was standing face-to-face with the Bratva boss. "You funded a plot that sought to murder an innocent newborn child. In my world, that carries a single penalty."

Petrov’s arrogant demeanor finally shattered. He looked around at the snipers, then at the wall of armored vehicles surrounding him. He realized, too late, that he had walked into a slaughterhouse constructed entirely for him.

"What... what do you want, Moretti?" Petrov stammered, his hand tightening on his cane.

"I want your exit from my city," I said, my voice cutting through the wind like a razor. "You will liquidate your local assets, you will sign over your northern distribution routes to the Moretti family as compensation for this insult, and you will leave North America by sunrise. If I ever see your face, or the face of any of your men, on this side of the Atlantic again... I will not send snipers. I will come for you myself."

Petrov swallowed hard. The legendary Russian boss, who had ruled the northern docks with an iron fist for two decades, was forced to bow his head.