Chapter 8 - THE TRAP AT THE HARBOR
The trap was sprung three days later.
It came in the form of an encrypted message routed through one of Vincent’s shell corporations: If Adrian Castellano wants his empire intact, he will come to Pier 51 alone at midnight. Bring the girl, or the docks burn.
Adrian didn't hesitate. He didn't ask for permission. But he didn't go alone, either.
When the black SUV pulled up to the abandoned warehouses of Pier 51, the fog rolling off Boston Harbor was thick enough to swallow the world whole. The skeletal frames of rusted cranes loomed overhead like prehistoric beasts.
Nora sat in the passenger seat, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. She had refused to stay behind at the safe house. If Vincent was using her as leverage, she was going to be there to make sure he didn't win.
"Stay in the car," Adrian ordered, his voice dropping into its most lethal, uncompromising tone. He checked the slide of a heavy, suppressed pistol, tucking it securely into the holster beneath his wool coat.
"No," Nora said, her voice shaking slightly but holding firm. "Vincent wants me. If I stay in the car, I'm just a target. If I walk out with you, I'm a variable he won't expect."
Adrian stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. The stubborn fire in her eyes matched his own. Slowly, a tight, grim smile touched the corner of his mouth.
"Stay behind me," he said. "If I give you a sign, you run."
They stepped out into the freezing harbor wind. The air tasted of salt, old iron, and ozone.
Standing in the center of the dilapidated pier, illuminated by the harsh glare of a single overhead floodlight, was Vincent Moretti. He was flanked by six armed men in heavy tactical gear, their assault rifles pointed toward the ground.
"Adrian!" Vincent called out, spreading his arms wide like a welcoming uncle greeting a prodigal son. "I knew you wouldn't let your little pet walk away. Sentimentality. It’s always been the Castellano family's fatal flaw."
Adrian walked forward, his stride steady, his shoulders back. Nora walked half a step behind his right shoulder, her hands free, her eyes scanning the shadows of the containers.
"You're getting old, Uncle," Adrian signed and spoke simultaneously, his voice slicing through the wind. "You rely on kidnapping civilians because you don't have the stomach for a real war anymore."
Vincent’s smile faltered, a flash of genuine rage crossing his aged face. "You think you're untouchable because you control the trade, Adrian? Without your ears, you're half a man. And this girl—this pathetic little waitress—she means nothing to you. She's a tool."
"She is everything you will never have," Adrian replied coldly.
Vincent raised his hand, snapping his fingers. From the shadows behind the container stacks, four more men stepped out, weapons raised. But before they could level their sights, a sharp, metallic clack echoed from the rooftops above.
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Red laser dots flickered across the chests of Vincent’s mercenaries.
Marcus and a dozen of Adrian’s elite men were stationed on the gantries overhead, their sniper rifles locked and loaded. The trap had been turned inside out. Vincent hadn't lured Adrian into a corner; he had walked straight into a firing squad.
