Chapter 8 - The North Pier at Dawn
The sky over Lake Michigan was beginning to bruise into a pale, sickly gray as the armored convoy screeched to a halt at the edge of the private North Pier.
Moored at the end of the slip was a massive, three-deck luxury superyacht, its navigation lights glowing against the churning, ink-black water. A dozen armed guards in sleek civilian raincoats patrolled the gangplank, scanning the rain-swept docks with nervous vigilance.
Roman’s men didn't bother with stealth this time.
The two armored SUVs smashed straight through the security gate, tires screaming against the wet concrete, coming to a violent stop fifty yards from the yacht’s gangplank.
Doors flew open. Roman’s tactical team poured out, their automatic weapons locking onto Moretti’s guards with terrifying precision. Before the dock security could even raise their rifles, a volley of non-lethal flashbangs detonated with blinding white light and thunderous concussive blasts.
Moretti’s men dropped their weapons, clutching their ears and stumbling blindly against the railings.
“Don’t shoot to kill unless fired upon!” Roman’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip. “We want them breathing!”
Pamela stepped out of the vehicle into the freezing rain, her boots splashing in the puddles. She walked with a steady, unhurried pace down the center of the pier, her eyes locked entirely on the main deck of the yacht.
Standing near the top of the gangplank, suitcase in hand, was a tall, silver-haired man in an expensive cashmere overcoat—Salvatore Moretti.
Moretti stared down in disbelief as his security detail collapsed around him like dominoes. When he saw Roman Voss walking alongside a pale, determined young woman in a tactical vest, his face twisted into an ugly snarl.
“Voss!” Moretti shouted over the wind, dropping his suitcase. “You’re barking up the wrong tree! You have no proof!”
“The Department of Justice disagrees,” Roman called out, stopping thirty feet from the gangplank, keeping his weapon trained on Moretti’s chest. “Every server at St. Jude’s is currently burning to ash, and your financial ledgers are landing on the Attorney General’s desk as we speak.”
Moretti’s face drained of color. He realized instantly that his empire had just evaporated. But as his eyes shifted from Roman to Pamela standing beside him, a cruel, desperate smile crept across his lips.
“Ah,” Moretti sneered, taking a step down the gangplank. “The little waitress. You know, Voss, I always wondered how long it would take you to figure out where I sourced your precious heirs. Tell me... how does it feel knowing your little family was built on stolen goods?”
Pamela didn't wait for Roman.
She stepped forward, lifting her Glock with both hands, her arms locked straight, the barrel pointing directly between Moretti’s eyes.
Moretti’s smile faltered. “Wait—now hold on, sweetheart—legal channels—administrative oversight—!”
“You lied to me,” Pamela’s voice didn't shake. It was as cold and dead as the winter lake behind them. “You told me my babies died. You made me bury three empty boxes while you played God with my flesh and blood.”
“I’m a businessman,” Moretti stammered, raising his hands, sweat mixing with the rain on his forehead. “It was just logistics—!”
“It was my children,” Pamela screamed, the agony and fury of fourteen months breaking out of her chest in a single, deafening cry.
Moretti lunged toward his coat pocket for a concealed hideout pistol.
Bang.
The shot echoed across the empty harbor like a thunderclap.
The bullet struck the wooden railing inches from Moretti’s shoulder, splintering the teak wood and sending him stumbling backward onto the deck in sheer terror, his hidden weapon clattering uselessly against the metal plating.
Pamela stepped to the foot of the gangplank, lowering her smoking weapon just an inch, her eyes blazing with absolute dominion.
“You’re bankrupt, Salvatore,” Pamela said softly, leaning in toward him so he could hear every word over the wind. “Your empire is gone. And if you ever, ever breathe the names of my children again... the next bullet won't hit the railing.”
Moretti scrambled backward on his hands and knees like a crab, scrambling into the cabin of the yacht and slamming the heavy glass doors shut, screaming for his captain to cast off.
Roman stepped up beside Pamela, lowering his rifle. He looked down at her, a profound, heavy respect shining in his dark eyes.
“It’s over,” Roman said quietly.
Pamela let out a long, shuddering breath. The weight of fourteen months—the grief, the terror, the endless nights in her empty apartment—seemed to lift off her shoulders all at once, carried away by the cold lake wind.
May you like
She turned to look at Roman.
“Take me home,” she said. “To my babies.”
