Chapter 4 - The Final Reckoning
The night air outside the warehouse was freezing, filled with the sharp, metallic smell of rain and gunsmoke.
A pair of black SUVs were parked haphazardly across the wet asphalt, their doors blown open and windows shattered. Spent brass casings littered the ground like autumn leaves. In the center of the alley, three of Rourke’s men were tied up against a brick wall, guarded by Cal, who stood watch with a submachine gun resting casually across his chest.
Mason shoved Nora into the back seat of Dominic’s idling sedan, slamming the door shut to protect her from the elements, though she immediately rolled down the bulletproof window a fraction of an inch to see what was happening.
A few yards away, standing near the loading dock entrance under the amber glow of a sodium streetlamp, was Arthur Rourke.
He was a tall, silver-haired man in an expensive trench coat, looking remarkably calm for someone whose hit squad had just been dismantled by a handful of Brooklyn enforcers. He held a lit cigarette between two fingers, exhaling a thin cloud of gray smoke into the damp night air.
Dominic stood ten feet away from him, hands casually tucked into his trouser pockets, looking as though he were waiting for a bus rather than facing a man who had tried to murder his entire family.
“You’re getting sloppy, Dominic,” Rourke said, his voice smooth, cultured, and dripping with arrogance. “Back in Boston, your old man would never have walked into a trap this obvious. Of course, he was always a bit sentimental. Just like you.”
“My father trusted you, Arthur,” Dominic replied, his voice terrifyingly calm. “He brought you into our home, fed you at our table, and made you a partner in everything we built. And you repaid him by burning our house down while we were sleeping.”
Rourke shrugged, taking another slow drag from his cigarette. “Business is business, kid. Your father wanted to take the company public, clean up the books, and hand control over to a bunch of do-gooder lawyers. He was going to ruin everything we spent thirty years building in the shadows. Someone had to take the reins.”
“And my sister?” Dominic’s eyes narrowed into twin slits of ice. “What was the business reason for burning a six-year-old child alive?”
Rourke’s expression flickered for a fraction of a second—a brief, imperceptible crack in his icy facade.
“Ah. The little girl,” Rourke smiled thinly. “A loose end. Accidents happen during fires, Dominic. You should know that by now. Though I must admit, I’m genuinely impressed she managed to crawl out of that nursery. I thought for sure the smoke would finish her off before she hit the courtyard.”
Inside the sedan, Nora’s hand tightened around the grip of her pistol. Her knuckles turned white. Her breath hitched in her throat as every single memory of that horrific night—the heat, the smoke, the terror—flooded back with blinding clarity.
She didn't wait for Dominic's signal.
The rear door of the sedan swung open with a sharp click.
Rourke’s head snapped toward the sound just as Nora stepped out into the rain, her hair whipping across her face, the Browning pistol raised and locked squarely on his chest.
“Eleanor?” Rourke’s eyes widened in genuine, unadulterated horror, the cigarette dropping from his fingers and sizzling out in a puddle at his feet. “No... that’s impossible. I saw the body!”
“You didn't look close enough, Arthur,” Nora said, her voice steady, cold, and entirely devoid of fear.
Rourke instinctively reached inside his coat for his own weapon, but he didn't even get his fingers around the grip.
A single gunshot cracked through the alley.
It wasn't Nora’s gun.
Dominic’s automatic had already cleared his holster. The bullet caught Rourke squarely in the right shoulder, spinning him around and slamming him hard against the brick wall. Rourke cried out, clutching his shattered arm as he slid down to the wet pavement, a dark stain spreading rapidly across his expensive trench coat.
Dominic walked slowly toward him, standing over the bleeding man like an executioner awaiting his final verdict.
May you like
“You missed,” Rourke wheezed, looking up with a pathetic, blood-streaked smile. “You’re getting soft, Dominic. Just like your old man.”
“I didn't miss,” Dominic said quietly, pressing the barrel of his gun against Rourke’s forehead. “I just didn't want you to die too quickly. My sister has a few questions she’s been wanting to ask you for fourteen years.”
