Chapter 9 - Fire on Pier 4
The cold-storage warehouse on Pier 4 was a cavernous, rusting structure built over the dark, murky waters of the river. Inside, the air was freezing, filled with the smell of wet salt, diesel exhaust, and rot.
Liam walked through the massive sliding steel doors, flanked by Marco and four heavily armed Moretti enforcers.
In the center of the vast, echoing room, beneath a single hanging industrial lamp, stood Salvatore Rossi. He was a small, slick man in an expensive white fur-collared coat, surrounded by eight broad-shouldered thugs carrying submachine guns.
"Liam," Rossi sneered, his voice high and grating. "I expected the old man himself. Is Don Moretti too frail to walk on wet piers these days?"
"Don Manuel doesn't waste his time on small negotiations, Rossi," Liam said smoothly, stopping ten paces away, his hands buried casually in his coat pockets. "State your terms so we can go home."
Rossi laughed—a dry, nasty sound. "My terms are simple. You brought blood and police attention to my district because of some broken waitress. That mistake cost me two days of shipping delays. I want thirty percent of your dock tariffs for the next six months as compensation."
Marco stepped forward, his hand moving toward his jacket, but Liam raised a calm hand to stop him.
"Thirty percent is impossible, Rossi," Liam said calmly. "Don Manuel offers five percent for the inconvenience. Take it or leave it."
Rossi’s face twisted in rage. "Five percent?! You insult me!" He snapped his fingers. "I don't think you understand your position, Liam! You didn't bring enough men!"
From the dark shadows of the upper catwalks, four more gunmen stepped into view, racking the slides of their weapons, pointing them down at Liam’s group.
It was an ambush.
"Drop your weapons, Liam," Rossi barked, pulling a gold-plated pistol from his coat. "You’re going to be my bargaining chip to force Moretti to hand over the entire eastern pier!"
Liam didn't flinch. He didn't look up at the catwalks. He simply looked Rossi dead in the eye, a cold, terrifying smile appearing on his face.
"You always were bad at math, Salvatore," Liam said quietly.
Liam reached into his coat and pressed a small red button on a remote transmitter in his pocket.
BOOM!
A deafening flashbang explosion detonated on the upper catwalk, blinding and disorienting the four snipers above.
Simultaneously, the heavy steel side doors of the warehouse burst open, and six more Moretti enforcers—led by Don Moretti’s elite strike team—poured into the building with automatic weapons raised.
"Cover!" Marco roared, drawing his weapon and opening fire.
The warehouse erupted into absolute chaos. Gunfire echoed like thunder off the steel walls, sparks flying as bullets ricocheted off iron girders and concrete pillars.
Rossi shrieked in horror, dropping his gold pistol, turning to sprint toward his getaway boat docked at the edge of the pier.
Liam moved through the gunfire like a shadow. He didn't fire wildly; he moved with terrifying, deliberate speed, sidestepping a gunman, disarming him with a brutal strike to the throat, and taking his weapon in one fluid motion.
He sprinted across the slick concrete floor, pursuing Rossi toward the open dock doors.
Rossi reached the wooden pier, scrambling toward his motorboat, his breath coming in ragged, hysterical hitches.
"Rossi!" Liam’s gravelly voice cut through the sound of the wind and crashing waves.
Rossi spun around, pulling a small silver derringer from his pocket, firing wildly.
The bullet grazed Liam’s left shoulder, tearing through his leather jacket, but Liam didn't even slow down. He closed the distance in two strides, kicked the derringer out of Rossi’s hand, grabbed the mobster by his fur collar, and slammed him against the wooden railing overlooking the churning, freezing river.
"Please! Please, Liam!" Rossi sobbed, his slick confidence completely destroyed. "I'll drop the demands! I'll give you my docks! Just don't throw me in!"
Liam held him over the dark water, his face inches from Rossi’s, his brown eyes burning with absolute, lethal dominance.
"The Moretti family doesn't want your docks, Rossi," Liam growled into his face. "We want your silence. If I ever see your men near Pier 4 again, I won't use a gun. I'll let the river handle you."
Liam pulled Rossi back and slammed him face-first onto the wooden dock, knocking him unconscious.
Behind him, the gunfire in the warehouse died down. Marco stepped out onto the pier, holding a bloody rag to his forehead, looking at Liam.
"Clear," Marco reported, gasping for air. "Rossi’s crew is disarmed and secured."
Liam touched his left shoulder, feeling the warm trickle of blood soaking his shirt. It was a shallow flesh wound.
He pulled out his phone, his blood-stained fingers tapping the screen, dialing a number he knew by heart.
On the third ring, a soft, anxious voice answered: "Liam? Is that you? Are you okay?"
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Liam closed his eyes, listening to the music of Naomi’s voice over the sound of the ocean waves. A deep, profound sense of peace washed over him.
"I'm fine, Naomi," Liam said softly, looking out at the city lights gleaming across the water. "It’s over. All of it."
