Chapter 6 - The Lion’s Den
Dawn broke over the New York harbor, painting the sky in bruised shades of violet, amber, and grey.
We weren't hiding anymore.
The safe house in Brooklyn was gone, our digital footprint was erased, and Lorenzo’s network was scrambling to locate us before the markets opened and the news of the assassination attempt leaked to the financial press. But Gabriel Russo didn't run. A wounded wolf doesn't flee his territory; he goes straight for the throat of the alpha who challenged him.
By 7:00 AM, our zodiac pulled ashore at an isolated private marina in Red Hook—a commercial shipping yard officially owned by Russo Logistics, but secretly controlled by Gabriel’s loyalist faction, led by his fierce, no-nonsense Chief of Security, Mateo.
Mateo was waiting on the wooden pier with three armored SUVs and a dozen heavily armed men. When he saw Gabriel step out of the boat, looking like a drowned god of war, the hardened veteran nearly dropped his clipboard.
“Boss? They... they reported you dead at the gala. The news feeds said— ”
“The news feeds lied, Mateo,” Gabriel cut him off, his voice carrying the lethal, frozen authority that had built the Russo empire. He turned, extending a hand to help me out of the swampy bottom of the boat. I took it without hesitation, my grip firm and unyielding. “Get the tactical units ready. We’re paying a visit to the corporate headquarters on Wall Street. Lorenzo is calling an emergency board meeting for 9:00 AM to vote me out posthumously and take control of the voting trusts.”
Mateo’s eyes narrowed as he looked at me, then back at Gabriel. “And the lady?”
“The lady saved my life, Mateo,” Gabriel said, his storm-gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that burned right through the morning chill. “And today, she helps me take back my house.”
Thirty minutes later, an unmarked convoy of black SUVs tore through the quiet morning traffic of Lower Manhattan, sliding to a brutal, tire-screeching halt directly in front of the monolithic glass-and-steel skyscraper of Russo Global Holdings.
The lobby security guards reached for their panic buttons the moment Gabriel walked through the revolving glass doors, flanked by Mateo’s elite strike team and me. But one look at Gabriel’s face froze them in their tracks. This wasn't the CEO attending a charity gala; this was the executioner returning to claim his throne.
We didn't take the elevators. We took the private executive freight shaft straight to the forty-seventh floor—the penthouse boardroom where the inner circle of the syndicate was currently voting on the future of the empire.
I checked my Glock, chambered a fresh round, and slipped it back into my holster. Gabriel adjusted his cuffs, his face carved from impenetrable granite.
The heavy walnut doors of the boardroom were closed.
Inside, muffled voices argued over financial ledgers and corporate succession documents.
Gabriel didn't knock. He raised his booted foot and kicked the double doors wide open with a crash that rattled the crystal chandelier hanging above the mahogany conference table.
Every head at the table snapped toward the entrance.
And sitting at the head of the table, wearing a bespoke Italian suit with a smug, victorious smile frozen on his face, was Lorenzo.
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The smile vanished instantly.
Color drained from Lorenzo’s face as if he had just stared into the eyes of a resurrected ghost.
