Everyone Froze When She Spilled Water on the Mafia Boss

The rain had turned into a steady, freezing drizzle by the time the black SUV slipped through the rusted chain-link gates of Port Terminal 4.

The docks were vast, dark, and cavernous, lit only by amber sodium vapor lamps that cast long, distorted shadows across towering stacks of shipping containers. The air smelled of diesel fuel, rotting seaweed, and wet iron.

Paige sat in the passenger seat, wearing a dark waterproof trench coat over her work clothes, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Luca was driving, his face illuminated by the green glow of the dashboard. In the back seat sat two heavy-set guards, their weapons secured in silent tactical holsters.

Roman sat beside Paige, staring straight ahead through the rain-streaked windshield. He wore a heavy black wool coat, his collar turned up against the cold.

“Stay in the vehicle,” Roman instructed without looking at her.

“I’m auditing the manifest handover,” Paige argued immediately. “If Marcus is there, he’s going to try to falsify the shipping log before your men secure the perimeter. You need someone who can read the digital terminal in real-time.”

Roman turned his head, his dark eyes fixing on hers in the dim light. “This isn't a spreadsheet, Paige. There could be crossfire.”

“I’ve survived seven years of corporate politics and a six-thousand-dollar suit disaster,” she said, her voice steady and unyielding. “I think I can handle a dockyard.”

A faint, reluctant smirk touched the corner of Roman’s mouth.

“Fine. But stay behind my left shoulder.”

The SUV rolled to a halt fifty yards behind a massive crane housing.

Through the windshield, they could see the towering hull of the Sea Harrier, its rusted steel side gleaming with rain. A single ramp extended from the cargo hold down to the concrete apron, where three men were unloading wooden crates onto a flatbed truck.

Standing beside them, holding a digital tablet and barking orders, was Marcus.

He wore an expensive designer raincoat, looking entirely out of place among the grime and diesel smoke of the docks.

“Cut the lights,” Roman commanded softly.

Luca flicked a switch, plunging the SUV into total darkness.

“Vince, Dante, take the left flank,” Roman instructed the guards in the back. “Luca, you take the crane ladder. I’m going straight up the ramp.”

“And me?” Paige asked.

“You’re with me,” Roman said, pulling his Sig Sauer from his shoulder holster and checking the magazine with a practiced, metallic click. “You wanted to audit the manifest. Let’s go see your cousin.”

They slipped out of the vehicle into the freezing rain.

The downpour instantly soaked Paige’s hair, flattening it against her forehead, but she didn't care. Adrenaline was flooding her system, sharpening every sense—the smell of the ocean, the glare of the sodium lights, the heavy thud of their boots against the wet concrete.

They moved with terrifying efficiency. Within seconds, Vince and Dante had secured the two lookouts near the crane without firing a shot, dropping them silently into the shadows behind a stack of lumber.

Roman led the way up the metal boarding ramp of the Sea Harrier, his weapon held low and ready. Paige stayed three steps behind him, her boots clicking softly against the grated steel.

As they reached the top of the ramp and stepped onto the brightly lit cargo deck, Marcus turned around—and froze.

His tablet slipped from his fingers, clattering against the metal deck with a loud, ringing sound.

“Roman...” Marcus stammered, his face turning the color of ash. He took two steps backward until his spine hit a stack of metal crates. “What... what are you doing here?”

“Checking the inventory, Marcus,” Roman said, his voice dropping into that cold, absolute register that made the hair on Paige’s arms stand up. “You always said family business was the most important business.”

Two of Marcus’s hired dock workers reached inside their jackets for their weapons, but Luca and Dante materialized from the shadows behind them, pressing the cold steel of their pistols directly against the backs of the men’s necks.

“Don’t,” Luca advised mildly. “The safety is off.”

Marcus looked wildly around the cargo deck, realizing he was entirely trapped. He shifted his gaze to Roman, his expression twisting from panic into bitter, snarling anger.

“You think you’re so smart, don't you?” Marcus hissed, spitting onto the metal deck. “Sitting up in your glass tower on the cliffs, playing CEO while the rest of us actually have to bleed to keep this family afloat! Uncle Vane was right—you’re too soft to run the syndicate!”

“Vane is dead, Marcus,” Roman said, stepping closer until he towered over his cousin. “And you’re using a dead man’s ghost to steal from the people who put a roof over your head.”

Marcus laughed—a high, manic sound that echoed off the steel hull. “Steale? I was taking what was owed! My father built half these docks, and you inherited the whole empire just because you survived a car bomb!”

He lunged forward, trying to pull a hidden derringer from his waistband, but Roman moved faster than thought.

With a brutal, precise strike, Roman caught Marcus’s wrist, twisted it upward until bone popped, and slammed him face-first against the side of a metal shipping container.

Marcus groaned, sliding down the metal until he hit the deck, clutching his broken wrist.

Roman didn't look down at him. He holstered his weapon, turned around, and looked at Paige.

“Check the tablet,” Roman said, his chest heaving slightly from the exertion. “Verify the manifest matches the secondary ledger.”

Paige walked over to where Marcus’s tablet lay glowing on the deck. She picked it up, swiped through the encrypted security files, and cross-referenced them with the digital notes she had memorized from the Vane Holdings audit.

“It matches,” she said, looking up at Roman through the driving rain. “Every uninspected container, every illegal pharmaceutical shipment, every dollar of diverted revenue. It’s all here.”