Chapter 7 - The Sovereign of New YorkThe warehouse at Pier 44 was dark, cold, and smelled of salt water and rotting timber.
Roman Petrov stood near a crate of smuggled firearms, flanked by six armed Russian enforcers in heavy wool coats. He was a mountain of a man with a jagged scar running from his left ear down to his collarbone, holding a glass of uniced vodka in his right hand.
"Moretti," Petrov rumbled as the heavy sliding doors of the warehouse rolled open.
Lorenzo Moretti walked out of the shadows alone. He wore a tailored charcoal overcoat, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his face devoid of any expression.
"Petrov," Lorenzo replied smoothly, his voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls. "You stepped into New York harbor without an appointment. That's a dangerous habit in my city."
Petrov laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Your uncle invited us, boy. The Moretti empire is rotten at the top. You spend your days playing nursemaid to a dead brother's ghost and some maid's brat. You don't have the stomach for a real war."
Lorenzo didn't blink. He raised two fingers.
From the rafters above, red laser dots appeared simultaneously across the chests of all six Russian enforcers. From the shadows surrounding the loading bays, thirty elite Moretti operators stepped into view, their tactical rifles locked and loaded.
Petrov’s smile vanished. He lowered his vodka glass. "You brought an army for a chat?"
"I brought an execution," Lorenzo stated flatly.
He pulled his hands from his pockets, stepping closer to the Russian boss. "You think because I showed restraint for three years that I forgot how to bleed my enemies? You think because I allowed a child into my home that my hands have gone soft?"
Lorenzo drew his custom Sig Sauer, the metallic click echoing like thunder in the cavernous warehouse.
"My brother is dead," Lorenzo said, every word dropping like lead into the freezing air. "My empire is mine. And anyone who thinks they can take an inch of my harbor will feed the fish before morning."
Before Petrov could raise his weapon, Lorenzo fired.
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The single shot struck Petrov cleanly in the shoulder, spinning the giant Russian around before he collapsed onto the concrete floor. The six enforcers dropped their weapons instantly as red dots pressed closer against their skin.
"Sal," Lorenzo called out without turning around. "Ship the survivors back to Moscow in a cargo container marked Return to Sender. Let them tell Petrov that New York has a new sovereign, and he doesn't share his throne."
