Everyone Feared the Mafia Boss

The eastern docks were an apocalyptic landscape of burning timber, black smoke, and the sharp, rhythmic crack of automatic gunfire echoing off the corrugated iron walls of the Moretti storage warehouses.

The black Maybach screeched to a halt behind a row of shipping containers three hundred yards from the blaze.

Before the car doors even fully swung open, the air was thick with the acrid stench of burning fuel and unrefined sugar. Shouts rang out across the concrete yards as Moretti loyalists returned fire against the unseen figures entrenched behind the loading docks.

"Stay in the car, Marin," August commanded, his hand resting on the door handle, his dark eyes locked on the burning warehouse ahead.

"I told you," Marin said, sliding across the leather seat with her white cane folded in her lap and the heavy ballistic vest Vance had forced over her blouse weighing down her shoulders, "I don't run."

She pushed open her door and stepped out onto the wet asphalt.

The noise was deafening—the roar of the flames, the metallic ping of stray rounds ricocheting off steel containers, the frantic shouting of men fighting for control of the river.

August swore under his breath, stepping out beside her and grabbing her elbow to guide her behind the protective bulk of a twelve-ton steel shipping container.

"Vance! Secure the perimeter!" August roared over the din, drawing his Sig Sauer and chambering a round with a sharp, lethal clack.

"August!" Marin called out, her hand catching his sleeve.

He looked down at her, his face illuminated by the orange glare of the burning warehouse. "What?"

"They're not trying to steal the cargo," Marin shouted, her head tilted toward the sound of the gunfire, her blind eyes scanning the sonic landscape of the docks. "Listen to the pattern! The shots are rhythmic. They're drawing your primary enforcers toward the eastern gate."

August’s brow furrowed. "A diversion."

"Yes," Marin said, her grip tightening on his sleeve. "The real attack isn't coming from the river. It's coming from the administration building behind us. They want the ledgers."

Before August could process her words, a sharp, shattering sound echoed from the direction of the Moretti administrative offices fifty yards to their rear—the sound of reinforced glass being kicked in.

August didn't hesitate. He looked at Frank, who had just sprinted up with a shotgun. "Vance, take half the men and hold the eastern gate. Frank, with me."

He looked down at Marin. "You stay right here behind this container. Do not move."

"I'm coming with you," Marin said stubbornly.

"Marin—"

"I know the layout of that building better than your men do," she cut him off, her voice ringing with absolute clarity. "I tuned the piano in your private office on the second floor three months ago. I know every hallway, every door, and every floorboard that squeaks. You need me."

August stared at her for a fraction of a second. The erratic flutter of his chest spiked, then steadied into a hard, rhythmic beat.

"Fine," he snarled. "Stay behind me. If a bullet flies, you hit the deck."

They moved as a unit through the shadows, skirting the perimeter of the burning warehouse and sprinting toward the brick administration building. The night air was freezing, laden with smoke and the metallic taste of fear, but Marin’s senses were sharper than ever. Every sound—the crunch of gravel, the distant hum of a generator, the heavy breathing of the two armed intruders who had just breached the side door—mapped itself in her mind with terrifying precision.

They reached the side entrance.