Chapter 8 - Fire over the Atlantic
The bullet didn't come from Julian’s gun.
It came from the top of a shipping container two hundred yards away—a high-powered sniper round from Marcus’s team that struck Julian’s hand, sending the silver pistol spinning into the dark water below.
“Now!” Matteo roared.
In a split second, Matteo grabbed Isabella by the waist, pulling her behind the heavy steel frame of an armored shipping container just as Julian’s guards unleashed a hail of gunfire.
The night exploded into chaos.
Muzzle flashes illuminated the fog as Marcus’s tactical team moved in from three sides, suppressing Julian’s men with disciplined, lethal precision. Over the headset in Matteo’s ear, Marcus’s voice cut through the noise:
“Boss! The boy is secure! We breached the secondary warehouse—he’s unharmed and in the secondary vehicle!”
Matteo pulled a sleek black sidearm from his coat holster, racking the slide with practiced ease. He looked at Isabella, holding her face in his hands, his eyes searching hers.
“Stay here,” he commanded softly. “Do not move until I come back for you.”
“Matteo, no!” she cried out, grabbing his wrist.
“I have to finish this, Isabella,” he whispered, kissing her forehead briefly. “For my father.”
He turned and stepped around the steel container into the crossfire.
Isabella crouched against the cold metal, her heart bursting with fear. Through the narrow gap between two crates, she watched Matteo move with terrifying grace—a man born of power and shadows, taking down Julian’s remaining bodyguards one by one until only Julian remained, crawling across the wet pier toward a speed boat tied to the dock.
Matteo walked slowly toward the crawling man, his gun held low at his side.
Julian turned over on his back, bleeding from his hand, his eyes filled with pure terror as he looked up at the son of the man he had murdered twelve years ago.
“Matteo... please,” Julian choked out, backing toward the edge of the wooden pier. “We can make a deal... the waterfront... you can have it all!”
Matteo stopped three feet away, looking down at his father’s killer with absolute, unyielding coldness.
“There are no more deals, Julian,” Matteo said quietly. “My family is going into the light. And you are staying in the dark.”
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Sirens echoed in the distance—dozens of NYPD patrol cars and federal vehicles speeding down the avenue toward the navy yard.
Matteo didn't shoot. He stood there, holding Julian at gunpoint, until six federal agents rushed onto the pier with drawn weapons, slapping steel handcuffs around Julian Moretti’s wrists and dragging him away into the flashing red and blue lights.
