Julian chuckled, a dry, mocking sound. “Oh, sweet, brave little catering worker. You think you’re a hero in a fairy tale? This is the real world. And my dear brother’s bloodline ends tonight.”
He raised the pistol, aiming directly past Sophia’s shoulder at young Ethan.
Click.
Julian pulled the trigger—
CRASH!
The corrugated tin roof of the boathouse ripped open in an explosion of splintered wood and flying metal. A dark, imposing silhouette dropped from the rafters straight onto Julian, tackling him to the wooden floor with brutal, bone-crushing force.
The pistol went skittering across the planks, splashing into the dark waters of the Hudson.
“DOMINIC!” Julian shrieked as his brother pinned him to the floor, heavy fists raining down with the fury of a hurricane.
Dominic’s face was unrecognizable in the shadows—a mask of pure, unadulterated wrath. Every punch landed with the sickening thud of bone fracturing under pressure.
“You tried to kill my son,” Dominic roared, his voice echoing off the concrete pilings of the pier. “You betrayed the blood! You betrayed the family!”
“I… I built this family with you!” Julian spat blood onto the wooden planks, laughing hysterically even as his ribs cracked under Dominic’s knee. “You think you’re untouchable, Dominic? Look behind you!”
Dominic paused, his heavy fist suspended in the air.
From the shadows of the harbor entrance, three speedboats roared up to the docks. Armed men in tactical gear—operatives of the rival Rostov Syndicate—poured onto the pier, their assault rifles raised, surrounding the boathouse in a lethal tactical circle.
At the center of them stood Viktor Rostov himself, a scarred Russian syndicate boss holding a submachine gun with a wide, cruel grin.
“Well, well, well,” Rostov shouted over the roar of the boat engines. “The mighty Dominic Moretti, caught with his pants down over a family squabble. Drop the weapon, Dominic. Or I turn your son, the little girl, and the mother into Swiss cheese right now.”
Dominic slowly stood up from his brother’s broken body, his dark coat billowing in the cold river wind. He didn’t look scared; he looked like an executioner who had just been handed extra work.
“Viktor,” Dominic said smoothly, his voice carrying effortlessly over the crashing waves. “You have a lot of nerve stepping onto Moretti docks with a Russian militia.”
“Business is business, Dominic,” Rostov laughed, stepping closer, keeping his gun leveled at Ethan’s head. “Julian promised us fifty percent of the shipping lanes if we helped him clean house. With you and your heir dead, the New York empire is up for grabs.”
Julian crawled weakly across the bloody floor, coughing up crimson. “Kill them, Viktor… kill them all…”
Dominic glanced down at his brother with absolute disgust, then raised his eyes back to Rostov. “You think Julian had the authority to trade Moretti territory? Julian was a parasite living off my name. And as for you, Viktor…”
Dominic slowly raised his hands, palms open, as if surrendering. “Take me. Let the boy, the mother, and the child go. They have nothing to do with the underworld.”
“Dad, no!” Ethan cried out, trying to run toward Dominic, but Sophia grabbed him tightly, holding him back with tears streaming down her face. Rostov grinned broadly. “A touching fatherly sacrifice. But I think I’ll take all of you. Dead witnesses don’t talk to the FBI.”
Rostov’s finger tightened on the trigger of his submachine gun—
RAT-A-TAT-TAT!
A volley of heavy gunfire erupted—not from Rostov’s men, but from the darkness behind them.
Marcus Vance—bleeding from a graze wound on his shoulder—stepped out of the shadows at the head of a dozen elite Moretti loyalists, holding an assault rifle smoking from recent discharge.
“Betrayal is a two-way street, Viktor,” Marcus shouted over the deafening gunfire. “Did you really think Dominic didn’t know about your little alliance?”
Rostov’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief as his tactical team was systematically wiped out in seconds. He spun around to fire back, but Dominic moved with terrifying, predatory speed.
In a single fluid motion, Dominic drew a concealed throwing knife from his boot and hurled it through the air.
THWACK.
The blade buried hilt-deep into Rostov’s throat. The Russian warlord dropped his weapon, clutched at his neck with choking gasps, and collapsed backward off the pier into the dark, churning waters of the Hudson River.
Silence descended upon the boathouse, broken only by the crackle of burning boat engines and the gentle lapping of water against the pilings.
Julian lay paralyzed on the floor, staring up at his brother in utter horror as Dominic slowly walked toward him, his boots clicking rhythmically against the blood-stained wood.
“Please… Dominic… we’re brothers…” Julian whimpered, his bravado entirely evaporated.
