At 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

Consciousness returned in waves of cold, biting pain.

My head throbbed with a vicious headache from the chloroform. When I opened my eyes, I found myself tied to a heavy wooden post in the center of an enormous, rusted maritime warehouse. The air smelled of rotten seaweed, diesel exhaust, and salt water. Through the cracked corrugated walls, I could see the dark waters of Boston Harbor. Night had fallen.

Ten feet away, Marco Moretti sat behind a makeshift wooden folding table, sipping espresso from a porcelain cup. Four armed hitmen flanked him, carrying automatic carbines.

When Moretti saw me lift my head, a cruel, triumphant smile spread across his leathery face.

“Ah, the courageous Miss Henderson,” Moretti mocked, setting his cup down with a delicate clatter. “You cost me two million dollars, three corrupt councilmen, and my entire smuggling pipeline through *L’Aura*. And yet, here you are. Looking remarkably fragile.”

I tested the coarse ropes binding my wrists behind the post. They were tight, digging into my skin, but I refused to let him see me cry. I forced myself to meet his arrogant gaze.

“Dominic will tear this city apart until he finds you,” I said, my voice hoarse but completely steady. “You should have run while you still had your freedom, Moretti.”

Moretti threw his head back and laughed—a harsh, barking sound that echoed through the empty steel rafters.

“Dominic Romano is currently surrounded at Mass General Hospital,” Moretti sneered. “My men launched an assault on the fourth floor twenty minutes ago. Dominic is dead, little girl. And once I finish liquidating his remaining captains, the Romano empire belongs to me.”

“You’re lying,” I said coldly. “Dominic isn't at the hospital.”

Moretti’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “What did you say?”

“Dominic knew about the breaker codes,” I continued, a cold smile curling my own lips. “He knew Marcus was compromised. The intelligence you received was fed to you by Dante. You walked right into his slaughterhouse, Moretti.”

Moretti stood up so violently his chair toppled backward onto the concrete floor. “Shut your mouth!”

He pulled a silver revolver from his waistband, cocked the hammer, and marched toward me, pressing the freezing barrel against my temple.

“If Dominic Romano is alive,” Moretti hissed, his breath stinking of tobacco and sour wine, “then you are the bait that will bring him to his knees right here on Pier 44. Let’s see how much Boston’s kingpin cares about his little stray waitress.”

*Boom.*

The explosion didn't come from the front gates.

The entire harbor-facing wall of the warehouse blew inward in a deafening eruption of twisted steel, shattered timber, and blinding white flashbang light.

The concussive force knocked Moretti off his feet, sending him sprawling across the wet concrete. Two of his hitmen were blown through the air by the shockwave, landing motionless amid the debris.

Through the gaping hole in the wall, cutting through the swirling smoke and sea spray, came the roar of high-powered assault rifles firing in synchronized, lethal double-taps.

Romano soldiers in tactical black breached the perimeter with terrifying speed, clearing the corners with ruthless military efficiency.

And walking through the center of the smoke, unhurried, towering like a vengeful god, was Dominic Romano.

He wasn't wearing a tuxedo. He wore black tactical gear, an assault rifle slung across his chest, his eyes burning with an unholy, terrifying rage that made the remaining Moretti gunmen drop their weapons and scramble for cover.

Dante flanked his right, a smoking shotgun in his hands, his face set in grim fury.

“Dominic!” Moretti screamed, scrambling across the floor on his hands and knees, reaching desperately for his fallen revolver.

Dominic didn't even look at Moretti. He raised his handgun with one hand and fired a single shot. The bullet struck Moretti’s right hand, shattering the gun and pinning Moretti’s palm to the floorboards with a spray of blood.

Moretti shrieked in agony, clutching his mangled hand against his chest.

Dominic didn't stop to gloat. He didn't exchange words. He strode directly past the screaming cartel boss, dropping to his knees in front of the wooden post where I was bound.

His assault rifle clattered to the floor as his hands reached out, trembling with an emotion so raw it looked like physical agony.

“Chloe,” he breathed, his voice cracking. “Chloe, look at me.”

With a single flick of his combat knife, he severed the ropes binding my arms. The moment my hands were free, I collapsed forward against his broad, armored chest, burying my face in his neck.

Dominic’s arms locked around me with crushing force, lifting me entirely off the cold concrete, burying his face in my hair. His chest heaved with violent, shuddering breaths.

“You’re safe,” he whispered against my ear, his voice breaking into a ragged sob he didn't even try to hide. “I have you. I have you, Chloe.”

“You came,” I wept, my fingers gripping the straps of his tactical vest as if my life depended on it. “You really came.”

“I will always come for you,” he vowed fiercely, his lips kissing my temple, my forehead, my wet cheeks. “Always.”

Behind us, Dante kicked Moretti onto his back, resting the cold muzzle of his shotgun against Moretti’s forehead.

“Boss,” Dante called out, his voice cold. “What do we do with Marco?”

Dominic slowly turned his head, still keeping one protective arm wrapped securely around my waist. He looked at Moretti with eyes so completely dead of humanity that the wounded mob boss began to soil himself in terror.

“Dominic… please,” Moretti wept, clutching his bloody hand. “The Families… the Commission… they won't allow you to execute a boss without a tribunal!”

Dominic stood up, helping me gently to my feet, keeping me sheltered behind his shoulder.

“There is no Commission anymore, Marco,” Dominic said, each word ringing like a tombstone dropping into fresh earth. “You broke the only rule that mattered. You brought a civilian into a war. You threatened the woman who saved my life.”

Dominic turned his back on Moretti, walking with me toward the breach where a Romano medical transport waited on the pier under the starry sky.

“Dante,” Dominic said without looking back.

“Yes, Boss?”

“Make sure Boston Harbor never sees this animal again.”

As Dominic guided me through the shattered wall into the clean, crisp ocean air, a single, definitive blast from Dante’s shotgun echoed behind us, followed by the sound of the ocean tide rushing against the piers.