Chapter 9 - Blood on the Docks
The handwriting on the note belonged to a ghost I thought I had buried five years ago—Viktor Rostov, a ruthless Russian syndicate leader who had controlled the northern shipping lanes before I systematically dismantled his operations and drove him underground. I stared at the photograph in my hand, the ink blurring slightly under the harsh fluorescent lights of the security room, while the terrifying realization crashed over me: Marcus Vance hadn't just leaked my whereabouts; he had partnered with Rostov to bring my empire down by striking at the only person who could ever truly hurt me.
"Trace the courier," I commanded, tossing the box onto the metal desk with enough force to rattle the equipment. "Find out who paid for the delivery, and lock down every perimeter entrance to this building. Double the guard rotation around the penthouse immediately."
"Boss," Miller stepped forward, his expression grave. "Rostov isn't playing games. If he’s resurfaced with Marcus backing him, they’re not just sending a message. They’re setting a trap. They want you out in the open, away from your security details."
"I know," I replied coldly, pulling my phone from my pocket and dialing Arthur’s direct line. "Arthur, get the tactical team ready. We’re paying a visit to the old maritime warehouse on Pier 42. Rostov wants a tribute? I’m going to give him a war."
An hour later, my convoy of three matte-black SUVs cut through the midnight fog, sliding to a silent halt outside the decaying, corrugated-metal shell of Pier 42. The wind blowing off the dark, churning harbor smelled of rotting fish, engine oil, and damp concrete. I stepped out of the lead vehicle, dressed in a tactical vest over a dark turtleneck, a heavy-caliber firearm strapped securely to my holster. Behind me, twelve of my most elite veterans fanned out into the shadows, moving with the silent, deadly grace of predators entering a kill zone.
We breached the rusted side door simultaneously, kicking it inward with a deafening crash. The cavernous interior of the warehouse was dimly lit by flickering overhead halogen bulbs that hummed in the damp air. In the center of the warehouse, tied securely to a wooden chair, sat a familiar figure: Marcus Vance. His expensive suit was rumpled, a thin line of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, his eyes wide with unadulterated terror.
"Nico!" Marcus choked out, straining against the heavy industrial zip-ties binding his wrists to the chair. "Thank God... they tricked me, Nico! Rostov said he just wanted to negotiate—"
"Shut up, Marcus," I snarled, stepping into the circle of light, my hand resting casually on the butt of my sidearm. "You sold your own blood to a Russian butcher for a seat at a table you're too weak to run."
Before Marcus could scream another plea, the shadows at the far end of the warehouse parted. Viktor Rostov stepped forward into the harsh light, flanked by six towering mercenaries holding automatic weapons. Rostov looked older, his face scarred by a jagged knife wound from our last encounter, but his eyes burned with the same cold, psychotic malice.
"Well, well, well," Rostov chuckled, his voice rasping like sandpaper scraping across steel. "The great Nico Vance. Walking right into the lion’s den all over again. You really thought you could hide your little girlfriend in the suburbs and play domestic house, didn't you? Love makes men stupid, Nico. It’s a fatal flaw."
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"You should have stayed in the dirt, Viktor," I said, my voice dangerously calm as I raised my weapon, locking eyes with him across the twenty-foot gap of concrete. "Dragging Norah into this was the last mistake you’ll ever make."
"Is it?" Rostov smiled wickedly, snapping his fingers. From the upper catwalk above, two of his snipers stepped into view, their laser sights painting a crimson grid across my chest. "Drop your weapon, Nico, or the girl in the penthouse gets a very special midnight visit from my men. Choice is yours: your life, or hers."
