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.

The storm was our greatest ally. High-speed tactical zodiac rafts cut through the churning black waves of Boston Harbor, completely blacked out, their muffled electric outboards barely registering above the thunderous roar of the ocean swells.

The *SS Leviathan* loomed out of the fog like a colossal iron beast.

Rust streaked its black hull, and powerful halogen work lights swept across the rain-slicked container deck. Heavy shipping cranes groaned as they hoisted unmarked refrigerated containers into the open belly of the vessel.

Dominic signaled with two fingers.

Our zodiac slid beneath the starboard mooring line. Within seconds, pneumatic grappling hooks hissed into the air, latching firmly onto the ship’s outer catwalk railings. Dominic ascended the rope ladder like a panther, vanishing over the gunwale. Marco went next, followed by two breachers.

Then it was my turn.

The rain whipped my face, freezing cold and tasting of brine. My boots slipped on the slick steel rungs of the ladder, but the memory of my mother gasping for air drove my muscles forward. When I reached the top, strong, leather-clad hands hauled me over the rail and pulled me against the shelter of a metal bulkhead.

Dominic held me tight against him, scanning the upper deck.

Two sentries in heavy rain gear patrolled the perimeter near the crane control booth. Dominic didn't waste a second. Moving with terrifying, silent efficiency, he closed the distance from the shadows. Before the guards could even turn, Dominic neutralized the first with a crushing blow to the larynx, while Marco dropped the second into a chokehold, dragging both bodies behind a stack of wooden pallets.

"Security feeds are looped," Marco whispered into his throat mic. "We have five minutes before the bridge realizes the catwalk patrol missed their check-in."

"Head for the cargo hold," Dominic ordered. "We destroy the product first. Salvatore won't leave this harbor without his payday; taking the bioweapon forces him to fight us on our terms."

We slipped through a heavy hydraulic hatch, descending into the belly of the ship.

The heat inside the engine and cargo levels was stifling compared to the freezing rain outside. Rows upon rows of shipping containers were locked down with heavy chains. In the center of the vast lower hold stood a pressurized mobile clean-room—a high-tech laboratory inside an oversized freight container, bathed in glowing blue ultraviolet light.

Inside, three scientists in biohazard suits were sealing racks of glass vials into aluminum flight cases.

Standing outside the clean-room, barking orders into a satellite phone, was Salvatore Romano.

Dominic's uncle was sixty years old, with slicked-back silver hair, an impeccably tailored cashmere coat draped over his shoulders despite the industrial heat, and a face etched with cold, aristocratic cruelty.

"Tell the captain we cast off in fifteen minutes!" Salvatore shouted over the hum of the ship’s generators. "The harbor master has been paid, and Dominic’s men are chasing ghosts at the high-rise! By sunrise, the shipment will be outside international waters!"

"You're not leaving this harbor, Uncle," a voice resonated through the steel cavern.

Salvatore froze. The satellite phone slipped from his fingers, clattering against the metal deck.

From the shadows between two towering shipping containers, Dominic stepped into the light. He held his rifle pointed squarely at Salvatore’s chest, his face an emotionless mask of impending execution. Marco and the rest of the strike team moved out, instantly cutting off the exits and covering the armed guards flanking the clean-room.

Salvatore’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief, his face draining of all color. "Dominic? That’s impossible... the strike team at the penthouse..."

"Are currently dead on the floor of your high-rise," Dominic replied calmly, his voice echoing off the iron bulkheads like a death knell. "Did you really think a few mercenaries and a traitorous restaurant manager could take my city from me?"

Salvatore recovered his composure with chilling speed. A sinister sneer curled his lips as his eyes drifted past Dominic’s shoulder—and landed directly on me.

"Ah," Salvatore purred, stepping back toward the clean-room door. "The little waitress from table four. The daughter of subject Eleanor Henderson. You brought her here, Dominic? How wonderfully sentimental. Did you come to avenge your life, or hers?"

"You murdered my mother," I snarled, stepping forward from behind Dominic, my hand gripping the Glock at my side, my knuckles turning white. "You poisoned her like an animal in a cage!"

Salvatore laughed—a cold, hollow sound that made my skin crawl.

"Your mother was collateral damage in the pursuit of greatness, girl!" Salvatore spat. "Her death laid the foundation for the most lucrative bioweapon this underworld has ever seen! Do you know what those vials are worth? Nations will fall to their knees! And your mother was merely the soil we cultivated the seed in!"

"Shut your mouth," Dominic commanded, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper.

"Or what, nephew?" Salvatore sneered, subtly slipping his right hand into his heavy cashmere coat. "You going to shoot me? If you kill me, you’ll never know the real reason your own father died twenty years ago. You’ll never know whose hand truly poured the poison into his glass."

Dominic stiffened. A flicker of shock cracked his stone-cold exterior.

In that millisecond of distraction, Salvatore’s hand whipped out from his coat. But it wasn't a gun.

He held a remote detonator.