Chapter 8 - The Gunpowder Waltz
Moretti’s eyes darted frantically toward the catwalk, then to the massive silver cylinder humming behind him. His bodyguards glanced at each other, their trigger fingers visibly trembling against their weapons.
“She’s bluffing,” Moretti hissed, though the sweat suddenly shining on his forehead betrayed his terror. “She’s an office girl!”
“Try it,” I said simply. I pulled my ceramic handgun from my coat, aimed it not at Moretti, but directly at the manual purge valve on the main supply line three feet to his left. “I spent eight years calculating burn rates and explosive thresholds. If you want to commit suicide over twenty million dollars of stolen pesticide, by all means, Silvio, tell your boy on the catwalk to shoot.”
Moretti’s breath hitched. In that split second of total paralysis, Dominic struck.
Moving with terrifying velocity, Dominic drew his weapon and fired a single, deafening shot. The sniper on Catwalk Three collapsed over the railing, tumbling forty feet to the concrete floor without ever touching his trigger.
Gunfire instantly erupted across the pier.
Dominic grabbed my waist, pulling me behind a reinforced steel forklift as bullets chewed through the concrete and ricocheted off the iron girders. Mateo and Lev surged forward from the shadows, flanking Moretti’s men with disciplined, lethal precision.
A mercenary lunged around the corner of the forklift, leveling a shotgun straight at Dominic’s back while Dominic was engaging two shooters near the catwalk.
I didn't hesitate.
I raised the ceramic pistol with both hands, locked my sights on the man’s center chest, and squeezed the trigger twice.
The double tap slammed into the shooter’s vest, knocking him backward onto the floor, his shotgun clattering away. Before he could recover, I stepped out, kicked the weapon across the floor, and drove the heavy heel of my boot into his jaw with all the force of my two hundred pounds, knocking him cold instantly.
Dominic spun around, his smoking gun lowered, staring at the unconscious man at my feet, and then up at me.
Adrenaline surged through my veins like liquid fire. My breathing was heavy, my hair wild from the harbor wind, but my hands were steady.
“Nice aim,” Dominic said, a savage, breathtaking grin breaking across his bloody cheek.
“I told you I wasn't just an arm piece,” I fired back.
Within three minutes, the firefight was over.
Moretti’s men were either dead, disarmed, or fleeing into the fog. Don Silvio Moretti was pinned against the side of Tank Seven, Mateo’s gun pressed firmly beneath his chin, while Dominic’s dock workers were swiftly cut free from their bindings.
Dominic walked over to Moretti, his boots crunching over spent shell casings. He wiped a streak of blood from his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Your territory in the North End belongs to the Vale organization as of midnight,” Dominic told the shivering crime boss. “You are going to take the morning ferry to Rhode Island, and you are never going to step foot inside this state again. If I see your face in Massachusetts, I won't use bullets. I’ll let Nora mix you a special cocktail.”
Moretti looked at me with pure, unadulterated terror. He nodded rapidly, his teeth chattering in the cold. “I’m gone. I’m gone, Dominic. I swear it.”
“Get him out of my sight,” Dominic commanded.
As Mateo hauled Moretti away, Dominic turned back to me. The warehouse was falling silent again, save for the steady hum of the exhaust fans and the distant wail of police sirens that Dominic’s political contacts would divert away from the docks.
Dominic stepped close, reaching out to take the ceramic pistol from my fingers. He set it on the forklift hood, then took both of my hands into his. They were warm, strong, and covered in gunpowder residue.
“Are you hurt?” he asked softly, searching my face with an intensity that made the rest of the world vanish.
May you like
“No,” I whispered, looking up at him. “Just tired.”
“You were magnificent,” he murmured. Without another word, he pulled me against his broad chest, wrapping his arms around me in an embrace so fierce, so complete, that the cold harbor wind couldn't touch me. I buried my face in his neck, breathing in the scent of wool, cedar, and victory.
