A feared crime lord spent days trying to get his traumatized daughter to eat, until an exhausted waitress made her speak a single word. / Chapter 26 / 120

Chapter 26 - Blood in the Rain

Night fell over the Brooklyn Navy Yard like a shroud of black velvet soaked in oil.

The rain had not stopped; it had only grown heavier, turning the cracked asphalt of the industrial waterfront into a labyrinth of black, reflecting mirrors. The wind off the East River blew bitter and salt-stung, howling through the rusted crane skeletons and abandoned dry docks.

At the edge of Pier 42 stood the monolithic silhouette of the old Fulton Cold Storage plant. Its three towering brick smokestacks jutted into the low, weeping clouds like giant gravestones.

Inside the plant's outer security perimeter, four guards armed with Belgian FN SCAR rifles huddled beneath the corrugated metal awning of the loading dock, smoking cigarettes to keep the chill away.

"Roberto's dead, you know," one of the guards muttered, flicking his cigarette butt into the dark puddle. "They say Blackwood skinning him alive in the back of a van. If the boss thinks that waitress is gonna save us from Dante Blackwood, he’s losing his damn mind."

"Shut your mouth," the second guard growled, adjusting his sling. "There are thirty men inside this building. Every entrance is rigged with C4, and the boss has the girl sitting in the center of the kill box. Blackwood walks in, he catches a hundred rounds. End of story."

A soft, almost imperceptible *thwip* sounded from the shadows behind the loading containers.

The second guard stopped talking. A neat, red puncture appeared precisely beneath his left earlobe. He collapsed into the mud without a sound, dead before his body hit the puddles.

"What the—"

*Thwip. Thwip.*

Two more rounds found their marks in rapid succession. The remaining guards crumpled instantly, their rifles clattering softly against the rubber mats.

From the impenetrable darkness behind the shipping containers stepped Dante Blackwood.

He wore a full tactical vest over his black clothes, a suppressed custom Heckler & Koch rifle held tight against his shoulder. Behind him, emerging like wraiths from the rain-swept darkness, were twelve of his most ruthless operators, moving in flawless tactical formation, their faces hidden behind black ballistic masks.

Marcus stepped up beside Dante, checking the thermal optic on his carbine.

"Thermal scans show twenty-two heat signatures on the second floor, Boss," Marcus whispered over the tactical comms. "They've concentrated their force in the central cold-storage locker—the old refrigeration vault. It has ten-inch insulated steel doors. A single entrance."

"And the girl?" Dante asked, his voice low, vibrating with lethal intent.

"One heat signature strapped to a chair in the center of the vault. Marcone is standing right behind her with four personal bodyguards. He’s using her as a shield."

Dante lowered his rifle slightly, looking up at the three towering chimneys piercing the storm.

This was the place where Salvatore Marcone had plotted the destruction of his family. This was where Marcone had ordered the hit that had stolen Elena from him and stolen his daughter’s voice for half a year. And now, the same parasite had dared to lay hands on the only light that had pierced the darkness of their ruined lives.

"Marcus," Dante said softly.

"Sir?"

"Do not aim for center mass on Marcone," Dante ordered, his voice cold as the grave. "I want his legs shattered. I want his lungs burning. I want him alive until he sees me tear his empire from his throat."

Marcus nodded grimly. "Breaching in thirty seconds."