Chapter 2 - Blood in the North EndThe black Mercedes convoy cut through the slick, rain-washed streets of Boston’s North End like a knife through silk. Inside the lead car, the silence was absolute. Dominic sat beside Norah in the leather-lined backseat, his fingers rhythmically tapping against the gold band of his wedding ring. He hadn't spoken a single word since they left the estate.
Norah stared out the window, the neon signs of Italian restaurants and late-night bakeries blurring into streaks of red and yellow. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"They're going to kill him," she whispered, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to keep it steady. "Because of me. Because I tried to use you."
Dominic stopped tapping his fingers. He turned his head slowly, looking at her in the dim dashboard light. "Listen to me, Norah. Nobody touches anyone under my roof. Nikolai Tarasov is an old dog who has forgotten his place in this city. Tonight, I am going to remind him."
The cars pulled up to a dimly lit warehouse tucked away near the harbor, its corrugated metal doors graffitied and peeling. Two heavy-set guards standing outside the entrance reached instinctively for their jackets as the doors of the Mercedes opened, but the moment they saw Dominic step out into the flickering streetlight, their hands froze. The sheer, suffocating aura of danger that radiated from him was palpable.
Victor and four other armed men fanned out instantly, securing the perimeter with military precision.
"Open it," Dominic commanded, his voice carrying an effortless, bone-chilling authority.
The guard nearest the door fumbled with a heavy padlock, his hands shaking as he threw the rusted iron doors open.
The interior of the warehouse smelled of diesel fuel, rotting wood, and copper—the unmistakable scent of fresh blood. In the center of the vast, drafty room sat a single wooden chair beneath a swinging halogen work light. Tied to the chair with thick industrial zip-ties was Liam Hastings. His face was bruised, his lower lip split, and his eyes wild with terror as he looked up into the glare of the lights.
Standing behind him, holding a heavy iron pipe, was Nikolai Tarasov—a massive, scarred brute with a thick silver beard and eyes like dead fish.
"Dominic!" Nikolai boomed, spreading his arms wide as if welcoming an old friend. "I wondered if the great king of Boston would dirty his expensive shoes in a place like this for a nurse who isn't even worth the ink on her hospital badge."
Dominic walked forward slowly, his hands resting loosely in the pockets of his tailored trousers. He didn't look at Liam; his dark gaze remained fixed entirely on Nikolai.
"You broke our arrangement, Nikolai," Dominic said quietly. "We had an understanding about the docks."
"Understandings change when little girls play games with the FBI," Nikolai sneered, taking a step closer to Liam and resting the tip of the iron pipe against the young man’s shoulder. Liam flinched, gasping in pain. "This boy owes us four hundred thousand, and your little wife tried to play us for fools. I want double. And I want the shipping lanes on the East Side."
Norah stepped past the threshold of the warehouse, her protective instincts overriding her fear. "Stop it! Leave him alone! The deal was with me—"
"Quiet, Norah," Dominic said without looking back, his hand rising slightly to halt her in her tracks.
Nikolai laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Listen to your master, little nurse. You think because he put a ring on your finger you're a queen? You're a hostage with a fancy title."
In a blur of motion that defied human reaction, Dominic’s hand left his pocket. A heavy, suppressed Sig Sauer appeared in his grip, and before Nikolai could blink, the barrel was pressed squarely against the center of the Russian boss's forehead.
The warehouse went dead silent. The two guards flanking Nikolai instinctively reached for their sidearms, but Victor and his men had already locked their sights on them. A dozen red laser dots danced across the chests of the Russian crew.
"You talk too much, Nikolai," Dominic murmured, his voice as calm as a frozen lake. "And you have made a critical error in judgment."
"You won't shoot," Nikolai gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead. "An outright war between us will bring the feds down on both our heads—"
"The feds are already looking," Dominic interrupted smoothly. "Which is why my wife, a respectable ER nurse, is currently cooperating with federal investigators to clean up the city's criminal element. Starting with unregistered, violent thugs who murder innocent truck drivers."
Nikolai’s eyes widened in sudden, horrifying realization. "You set this up."
"I tied up a loose end," Dominic corrected.
With a lightning-fast movement, Dominic brought the heavy butt of the pistol down across Nikolai’s nose with a sickening crunch. The Russian boss crumpled to the floor like a sack of wet cement, blood pooling instantly on the concrete.
Dominic holstered his weapon, turned to Victor, and nodded toward Liam. "Cut him loose. Clean him up."
He turned back to Norah, who stood frozen in horror and awe near the entrance. The harsh light caught the sharp angles of his face, making him look less like a man and more like an executioner from a forgotten era.
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Dominic walked over to her, ignoring the blood on his cuff, and gently cupped her cheek with his warm hand. His thumb brushed away a tear she hadn't realized she was crying.
"Let's go home, Mrs. Russo," he whispered softly. "Your brother is coming with us."
