Chapter 6 - The Fall of Victor CostaBy midnight, a cold, heavy fog rolled over Pier 92 in Brooklyn, shrouding the towering steel shipping containers in dark, ghostly vapors.
Victor Costa stood near the edge of the central pier, flanked by twenty armed mercenaries, holding a heavy detonator connected to the fuel tanks. "WHERE IS DOMINIC ROSSI?!" Costa roared into the fog. "TELL HIM TO FACE ME!"
BOOM!
The night was shattered by the blinding glare of thirty high-powered tactical spotlights cutting through the fog from six surrounding Maybachs, pinning Costa and his men in beams of white light.
Stepping out from the central vehicle, wearing an immaculate dark suit, flanked by fifty broad-shouldered Rossi operators led by Enzo, was Dominic.
And walking directly beside his right shoulder, wearing her dark wool coat, her gold wedding ring gleaming under the spotlights, was me.
Victor Costa backed against a shipping container, his bloodshot eyes bulging in horror as he looked at the girl he had tried to execute three weeks ago standing beside the Don of New York like an untouchable queen.
"You..." Costa stammered in frantic, pathetic terror. "You took seven bullets... how the hell are you still walking?!"
"Because my husband doesn't allow me to die, Costa," I spoke cleanly, every word dropped into the quiet harbor like a heavy slab of cold iron.
Dominic raised his hand flat, giving a single, unhurried signal.
Before Costa’s men could even raise their weapons, federal tactical teams and Rossi operators moved in from the surrounding warehouses in a complete, airtight net.
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CLICK. CLICK.
Heavy steel handcuffs locked around Victor Costa’s wrists as he wept in total, groveling defeat, dragged away by federal marshals to face lifetime imprisonment for high treason, racketeering, and attempted murder.
