Chapter 6 - BLOOD ON THE SALT FLATS
The wind off the Atlantic whipped across the abandoned docks of Montauk like a sheet of ice, carrying the heavy, metallic tang of salt and impending violence. The black Ford Explorer slid to a halt beside a rusted corrugated-metal warehouse that looked as though it hadn't seen human activity in a decade.
Dominic killed the engine. The silence inside the vehicle was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic crashing of dark waves against the wooden pylons outside.
"Thomas, stay with the vehicle," Dominic commanded, checking the magazine of his sidearm before tucking it into his holster. "If headlights appear on the access road within twenty minutes, drive straight into the marsh and don't look back."
"Mr. Moretti—" Thomas started, his voice shaking.
"Do it," Dominic snapped, before opening his door and stepping out into the freezing gale.
Naomi stepped out on the other side, her wool coat wrapping tightly around her frame, her single leather suitcase clutched firmly in her hand. She didn't look like a terrified hostage or a helpless socialite; she walked with the steady, unyielding posture of a woman who owned the ground beneath her feet.
Dominic watched her pull a heavy brass key from her pocket and insert it into a rusted padlock on the side door of the warehouse. With a sharp click, the lock gave way. She pushed the heavy metal door open, revealing a pitch-black interior that smelled of old motor oil and sea spray.
"You're walking into a trap if Silas anticipated this," Dominic warned, stepping past her with his gun raised, scanning the shadows with practiced military precision.
"Silas didn't anticipate this because he never believed I had a mind of my own," Naomi replied, her voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space as she flipped a wall switch.
A string of overhead fluorescent lights flickered to life, buzzing loudly before illuminating a massive, hidden staging area. It wasn't empty. Parked inside were two high-speed Boston Whaler interceptor boats, loaded with fuel canisters, encrypted communication gear, and heavy crates bearing the Rossi family crest—crates containing millions in bearer bonds and untraceable offshore accounts.
Dominic stood frozen in the center of the room. The sheer scale of the asset stash took his breath away. This wasn't just a fallback position; it was a sovereign war chest capable of rebuilding an entire criminal empire from scratch.
"Your father," Dominic breathed out, his eyes wide as he looked from the boats to his wife. "He didn't hand me an empire when we married. He tested me."
"And you failed, Dominic," Naomi said, walking calmly toward the edge of the concrete pier that extended out into the dark water. She set her single suitcase down on a metal workbench. "You took the crown, but you forgot that a crown is heavy only when you refuse to share the weight."
Before Dominic could respond, the screech of tires echoed outside the warehouse doors.
The heavy metal entrance slammed backward as headlights flooded the interior. Heavy boots hit the concrete, accompanied by the cold, metallic clatter of automatic weapons being raised.
"Well, well, well," a smooth, venomous voice called out from the shadows of the doorway.
May you like
Silas Sterling stepped into the light, a smug grin plastered across his face, flanked by four heavily armed enforcers. He held a customized Beretta aimed squarely at Dominic’s chest.
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