Chapter 5 - The Ambush at Pier 12
The morning sun over the East River was cold, pale, and wrapped in industrial smog.
At 8:00 AM on Monday, Khloe stood in Roman’s corner office on the 64th floor, wearing a sharp, tailored ivory wool skirt suit that had been delivered to the penthouse at dawn by a private atelier from Fifth Avenue. Her dark curls were pinned back in an elegant, professional twist, her tortoiseshell glasses replaced by clean contacts, the Caster signet ring gleaming boldly on her left hand.
She stood behind her desk, reviewing the shipping manifests for Pier 12—the primary deep-water terminal through which Caster Logistics moved sixty percent of its container freight.
The heavy mahogany door to Roman’s private study opened.
Roman walked out, dressed in a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit, carrying a leather brief under his arm. He looked completely composed, but his eyes swept over her immediately, checking her face, her hands, and the door behind her with that relentless, protective vigilance that had consumed him since the night of the gala.
"The port authority inspector cleared the southern berths, Roman," Khloe said, her voice steady, falling back into her professional cadence though her pulse skipped when his eyes lingered on her waist. "The cargo manifests for the Rotterdam shipment are verified. But there's a discrepancy in the secondary fuel logs."
Roman paused at her desk, setting his brief down. "What discrepancy?"
Khloe tapped the screen of her tablet. "Three hundred thousand gallons of industrial diesel were routed through Tanker Berth Four at two in the morning. The manifest was signed with an electronic signature from the Valente maritime registry."
Roman’s jaw hardened into granite.
He didn't ask questions. He reached for his desk phone, hit speed dial one, and barked a single command: "Mikhail. Mobilize the convoy. Pier Twelve. Now."
Twenty minutes later, three armored black Cadillac Escalades were tearing through the industrial corridors of Brooklyn, their sirens muted, cutting through the morning traffic with terrifying speed.
Khloe sat in the rear passenger cabin of the lead vehicle beside Roman.
She had refused to stay behind at the penthouse. When Roman had ordered her to remain in the secure suite, she had looked him dead in the eye, adjusted her ivory lapel, and said: "You told the Five Families I was the sole executrix of this company, Mr. Caster. If my company's fuel tanks are being hijacked, I am going to the docks."
Roman had stared at her for five seconds before letting out a low, proud laugh and pulling her into the car.
Now, as the convoy crested the bridge overlooking the industrial cranes of Pier 12, a thick plume of black, greasy smoke was billowing into the morning sky.
"Contact!" Mikhail yelled from the front passenger seat, unholstering a suppressed submachine gun. "Two commercial fuel tankers are blocking the main gate! We have armed personnel on the catwalks!"
BANG. BANG. BANG.
A hail of high-caliber rifle fire slammed into the reinforced ballistic windshield of the Escalade, spiderwebbing the armored glass with white, circular fractures but failing to penetrate.
"Down!" Roman roared, throwing his massive frame over Khloe, shoving her down into the footwell between the leather seats, shielding her entire body with his back as the convoy screeched to a halt amidst the thunder of automatic weapons.
"Stay here, Khloe!" Roman commanded, his voice dark and feral.
"Roman, wait!" she screamed, clutching his lapel as he drew a heavy, customized black automatic pistol from beneath his jacket.
He looked down at her in the footwell. In the flashing light of the emergency strobes, his eyes were completely black with homicidal rage.
He leaned down, pressed a fierce, breathless kiss to her lips, and whispered:
May you like
"Lock the doors from the console. If anyone touches this glass... shoot through the door."
He kicked the heavy armored door open and dove into the smoke.
