2At 9:17 P.M., I was the only waitress brave enough to approach table four, where Boston's most feared mafia boss was slowly dying in front of everyone.

By midnight, the harbor wind had picked up, lashing the steel siding of Pier 42 with torrential salt rain. Inside the tactical war room, the atmosphere was thick with cigar smoke, the scent of gun oil, and the relentless clacking of keyboards.

Dr. Chen walked out of the laboratory bay holding a small, padded steel case containing four vials of golden liquid.

"The extraction is complete," Chen announced, setting the case on the stainless-steel plotting table. "Using Miss Henderson’s biological markers, we've synthesized four doses of a hyper-accelerated neural stabilizer. If Salvatore's bioweapon touches anyone in this room, this compound neutralizes the paralysis within thirty seconds."

Dominic didn't look at the vials. His gaze was fixed on a sprawling holographic layout of the *SS Leviathan*, a 300-foot private commercial cargo vessel docked at the Black Falcon Cruise Terminal across the channel.

"Salvatore’s buyer arrived two hours ago," Marco said, pointing a laser at the ship’s cargo hold. "A consortium representing an unregistered mercenary syndicate out of Eastern Europe. They're loading twelve specialized refrigeration containers onto the ship right now. Each container holds ten thousand units of the synthesized *NQX-9* neurotoxin. The transaction value is estimated at eighty million dollars."

"And Salvatore?" Dominic asked coldly.

"He's hosting the buyers in the ship’s upper observation deck," Marco replied. "He thinks you're dead or pinned down by his police precinct. The local news is running a blackout on the shooting at the high-rise. Salvatore believes he won."

"Then let's teach him the price of premature celebration," Dominic said, racking the slide of an assault rifle before setting it down.

"I'm going with you," I said firmly, stepping up to the tactical table.

Every man in the room froze. Marco blinked, looking sideways at Dominic with an expression that screamed caution.

Dominic slowly turned his head toward me. "Chloe, this is an offshore assault. There will be no rules, no police, and no mercy. You stay here where it's safe."

"Safe?" I let out a dry, bitter laugh that surprised even myself. "Dominic, look at me! My mother was executed in a sterile room while I watched her choke! I spent the last three years working double shifts, being treated like dirt by men like Richard, believing that my mother's body failed her. She died because of what's inside those shipping containers! You think I'm going to sit in a bunker like a helpless victim while you finish her war?"

Silence hung heavy in the room. Marco looked down at his boots. The soldiers shifted uncomfortably.

Dominic stepped closer to me until there was barely an inch of space between our chests. He towered over me, the aura of violence that clung to him enough to make hardened killers step aside. But I didn't step back. I lifted my chin and looked straight into the dark void of his eyes.

"You have no combat training," Dominic whispered harshly. "A single ricochet will kill you."

"Then give me a vest and teach me how to pull a pin," I countered, my voice raw with venom. "I survived Richard. I survived your restaurant. And an hour ago, I took down a tactical commando with a brass lamp. I am not your damsel, Dominic Romano. I am the reason you're still drawing breath."

A slow, dangerous smile pulled at the corner of Dominic’s scarred lips. It was a smile that would have terrified anyone else in Boston, but to me, it felt like an invitation to retribution.

"Marco," Dominic commanded without breaking eye contact with me. "Fit her with Level IV ceramic plates and a compact sidearm. If she shoots you by accident, it's your own fault."

"Understood, Boss," Marco sighed, though a begrudging smirk crossed his battle-scarred face.

Twenty minutes later, I was strapped into a black tactical vest, a Glock 19 holstered at my hip, its polymer frame cold against my thigh. Dominic stood behind me, adjusting the heavy straps across my shoulders, his hands lingering briefly over the Kevlar, ensuring every buckle was locked tight.

"Keep behind me at all times," he muttered against my hair. "If I say drop, you hit the steel. If I say run, you run to the tenders."

"And if Salvatore points a gun at you?" I asked, turning my head.