Come on, darling. We need a normal child,"" the woman said

The night seemed to stretch into eternity.

Upstairs in my bedroom, I couldn't sleep. The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed two, then three, then four in the morning. Outside, the wind rattled the branches of the ancient oak trees, sounding like tapping fingers on the glass. Clara sat in the armchair beside my bed, dozing off with an open novel in her lap, while Teresa paced the kitchen downstairs, making pot after pot of dark coffee.

Down in Brooklyn, at the edge of the freezing, oily waters of the Red Hook shipping channel, the world was bathed in harsh halogen light and cold salt spray.

Pier 42 was an abandoned container terminal surrounded by rusted cranes and towering stacks of shipping containers. Rain slicked the asphalt.

Dominic’s single black SUV rolled into the center of the yard, its headlights cutting through the heavy mist. Dominic stepped out alone, wearing his heavy wool overcoat, his hands buried deep in his pockets.

From the shadow of a rusted warehouse, three men emerged. In the center walked Lucian Rossi—a wiry, sharp-featured man with greasy silver hair, wearing an expensive camel-hair coat that looked ridiculous against the industrial decay. He had a gold chain around his neck and a sneer etched permanently into his face.

"Dominic," Rossi called out, his voice echoing in the wet air. "You actually came alone. I thought that little crippled orphan girl had made you completely soft, but here you are, walking into the slaughterhouse."

Dominic didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He stopped twenty feet away.

"You hit my warehouse, Lucian," Dominic said calmly. "You burned three trucks. You put two honest working men in the ICU. Why?"

Rossi laughed, an ugly, grating sound. "Honest men? There are no honest men in our business, Dominic! You got rich playing the legitimate philanthropist, building wings on hospitals, while the rest of us fought for scraps in the borough. And then you insult the Commission by bringing a disabled state charity case into your home? You made our whole syndicate look ridiculous! People are laughing behind your back, Dominic. They say the Great Moretti is playing nursemaid!"

"The only person laughing tonight is going to be the coroner, Lucian," Dominic replied softly.

Rossi's sneer widened. "Look up, Dominic."

On the catwalks of the shipping containers, four red laser dots appeared, dancing across the wet asphalt before converging directly on Dominic's chest. Rossi’s snipers were in position.

"You’re finished," Rossi snarled, reaching inside his coat. "Once you’re in the river, your empire splinters. Sterling’s capital will fund my takeover of the waterfront, and that little girl of yours? She’ll be back in a state cage before your body turns cold."

Dominic didn't look down at the red dots on his chest. He looked straight into Lucian Rossi’s eyes.

"You always were an amateur, Lucian," Dominic said. "You borrowed money from a desperate amateur, and you hired amateur mercenaries."

Dominic raised his right hand from his pocket and snapped his fingers once.

Instantly, from the shadows of the high crane towers, high-powered floodlights blasted on, blinding Rossi and his men. The sound of four sharp, muffled cracks echoed from the rooftops—suppressed rifle fire.

The four red laser dots vanished from Dominic's chest. Above them, four figures fell from the container catwalks, landing with heavy thuds onto the soft dirt behind the shipping crates.

Rossi stumbled backward, his face turning an ash-grey shade of absolute terror. He pulled his pistol, but before he could raise it, Marco stepped out of the fog directly behind him, pressing the cold steel of a shotgun against the base of Rossi’s neck.

"Drop it, Lucian," Marco growled.

The pistol clattered onto the wet asphalt. Rossi’s two bodyguards dropped to their knees, their hands locked behind their heads.

Dominic walked forward slowly, his polished boots splashing through the puddles. He stopped two inches from Rossi, who was trembling so violently his teeth were chattering.

"You mentioned Lily," Dominic whispered, his slate-grey eyes reflecting the blinding floodlights. "What did you say she was?"

"Dominic... please," Rossi stammered, his bravado evaporating into whimpering pleas. "It was just business... Sterling came to me! He offered the money! He told me you were vulnerable because of the girl—"

"Lily is my daughter," Dominic said, every syllable hammered out like iron on an anvil. "And you are nothing."

Dominic turned his back on Rossi.

"Marco," Dominic commanded.

"Yes, Boss?"

"Call the FBI’s Special Organized Crime Strike Force. Drop the manifest of Pier 42 and the unregistered weapon crates Rossi has stored in container eighty-four. Let Agent Miller have the arrest of his career. I want Lucian Rossi locked in a federal penitentiary for the next thirty years, listening to prison bars rattle."

Rossi blinked, stunned. "You're... you're turning me over to the feds?"

Dominic paused at the door of his SUV and looked back over his shoulder.

"A few months ago, I would have put a bullet in your forehead and dumped you in the Hudson, Lucian," Dominic said quietly. "But I made a promise to a very brave little girl with a one-eyed bear. I promised her I wouldn't do bad things. And unlike you, Lucian, I keep my promises."

The heavy door slammed shut.

At 6:45 AM, the black SUV rolled up the cobblestone driveway of the Bedford estate.

I was sitting at the dining room table, dressed in my navy dress, my hands resting beside a plate of empty pancakes. My heart was pounding.

The front door clicked open.

Dominic walked into the dining room. His coat was gone. His hair was slightly damp from the morning mist. There was no blood on his shirt, and his eyes were tired, but warm.

He looked at the grandfather clock on the wall. It read 6:58 AM.

"Two minutes early," Dominic said with a faint smile, walking over to my chair and lifting me up into a warm hug. "Did you save me any pancakes?"