Chapter 5 - The Siege of the Miami PortAt 11:00 PM that evening, a tropical rainstorm battered the dark steel shipping cranes of the Miami Commercial Docks.
Inside a high-security private warehouse at Pier 14, Dominic Moretti stood before forty heavily armed mercenaries, his face pale, sweating profusely as he downed a glass of scotch.
"He's coming!" Dominic shouted to his squad leaders. "I know my brother! He won't wait for the council to mediate! He's coming tonight!"
"Let him come, Dominic," his chief mercenary, a cold-eyed killer named Vance, sneered, tapping his assault rifle. "We have forty men, heavy armor, and three automatic turrets mounted on the roof. No one steps onto this pier alive."
BOOM!
The massive, reinforced steel roll-up doors of the warehouse were blown inward with apocalyptic force.
A sixty-ton armored transport truck shattered through the debris, plowing straight into the center of the floor, crushing two tactical vehicles beneath its massive tires.
The side hatches of the transport blew open, and twenty of my elite, loyal Moretti operators—wearing heavy combat gear—poured into the warehouse like a wave of iron and steel.
I stepped out from the rear passenger cabin wearing an immaculate black suit, holding my silver sidearms, moving through the rain of glass and fire with an unshakeable, sovereign authority.
"DOMINIC!" my baritone boomed through the high-ceilinged warehouse, cutting cleanly through the roar of heavy gunfire. "STEP OUT!"
Dominic let out a terrified, high-pitched shriek, scrambling up the steel catwalk stairs toward the executive office above the floor.
Vance raised his assault rifle, aiming directly at my chest.
THWIP. THWIP.
Before Vance could pull the trigger, two high-caliber rounds from my silver pistols punched cleanly through his chest plate, dropping him flat onto the concrete floorboards.
My men swept the floor in less than three minutes, disarming the remaining mercenaries and locking down every exit.
I walked up the steel catwalk, my heavy leather boots striking the iron steps with a slow, deliberate precision, until I stood in the doorway of the executive office.
Dominic was cowering behind a steel desk, holding a shaking pistol, his face completely drained of color.
"Alejandro... please!" Dominic whimpered, dropping his gun onto the desk, holding his hands up in frantic, desperate surrender. "We're brothers! We share the same blood! Our father wouldn't want you to kill me!"
I stepped close to him, looking down into his pale, pathetic face with a cold, absolute disdain.
"Our father raised men, Dominic," I whispered, every word sharp as a razor blade. "He didn't raise snakes who target pregnant women and four-year-old children."
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I pulled out my phone, displaying a live video feed from the federal prosecutor's office in Chicago, where my legal team was submitting the complete financial records of his offshore thefts alongside Elena's sworn deposition.
"You aren't dying tonight, Dominic," I revealed flatly. "You are going to spend the rest of your life inside a federal maximum-security prison, watching my sons grow up to rule the empire you tried to steal."
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