Chapter 3 - Ghosts in the Rain“Well, well, well,” a smooth, mocking voice cut through the restaurant as the glass doors swung fully open. “Look at the happy family reunion. Truly touching enough to make a hardened criminal weep.”
My hand went instantly to the snub-nosed Sig Sauer tucked beneath my left armpit, but I didn't draw. I stayed frozen on one knee, my body forming a physical barrier between the armed intruders and Aria, who buried her face against Elena’s waist.
Stepping into the warm candlelight of Serafina was Vincent Moretti—the heir to the Moretti shipping empire, a man I had personally crippled in a turf war over the Brooklyn piers three years ago. Or so I had believed. His left leg dragged slightly, and a jagged white scar cut across his left cheekbone, but his eyes were bright with unhinged malice.
“Vincent,” I said softly, rising slowly to my feet. My voice was dangerously low, carrying the deadly calm of a coiled spring. “I thought the bottom of Jamaica Bay looked good on you.”
Vincent smiled, showing teeth stained with cheap cigars. “You always were arrogant, Dominic. You thought because you controlled the docks, you controlled the tides. But Salvatore left a few insurance policies behind before your dear uncle had his convenient 'heart attack.' And one of those policies was keeping tabs on your lovely, fertile ex-wife.”
He gestured with his gun toward Elena.
My blood turned to liquid nitrogen. “If you so much as breathe in her direction—”
“Oh, spare me the mafia romance routine!” Vincent snapped, his smile vanishing into a snarl. “You humiliated me, Valenti. You took my piers, you broke my syndicate, and you left me for dead in the freezing harbor. I lost everything because of your empire. So today, I thought it only fair that I take everything from you.”
He raised his weapon, leveling the silenced barrel straight at Aria’s small head.
Time didn't just slow down; it shattered.
Every instinct I had honed through two decades of blood, betrayal, and violence surged through my nervous system. I didn't think about the judge cowering behind the bar. I didn't think about Marco drawing his weapon. I saw only the black-and-gold eyes of my daughter, wide with terror, staring down the barrel of a gun.
“Don't you dare,” I whispered.
Before Vincent could squeeze the trigger, a deafening crash echoed from the back kitchen doors.
Marco hadn't waited for an order. My underboss had dropped flat behind the mahogany bar, drawing his twin Berettas, and unleashed a burst of suppressing fire that shattered the overhead crystal chandelier. Glass rained down like diamond shrapnel across the white tablecloths.
Vincent’s tactical guards scrambled, returning fire blindly into the dining room as tables splintered and marble columns chipped under the impact of high-caliber rounds.
“Get down!” I yelled, grabbing Elena by the waist and shoving her and Aria behind the heavy mahogany base of table nine.
“Dominic—!” Elena screamed, her hands flying to protect the child as plaster dust and bullet casings rained around us.
“Stay down, Elena!” I barked, drawing my Sig Sauer with my scarred right hand. “If anyone moves past this table, put a bullet in them!”
I didn't wait for her answer. I rolled across the floor, sliding behind a heavy marble pillar as a round chewed through the wood inches from my ear. The restaurant had transformed from a high-end dining room into a concrete-and-glass abattoir.
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Vincent was shouting orders to his men, advancing through the haze of smoke and shattered glass toward table nine. He thought he had me cornered. He thought the Valenti syndicate was finished because he had caught me without my primary security detail outside.
He didn't know the first rule of surviving my world: never corner a beast in his own city.
