The mafia boss let his wife scream at the waitress—until the waitress calmly switched to French and revealed who was embezzling his money.

By 11:00 PM the following evening, the rain over New York had stopped, leaving the city wrapped in a heavy, freezing mist that hung low over the East River.

Pier 42 in Brooklyn was a massive, decaying industrial site—a sea of rusted shipping containers, towering cranes, and cracked asphalt overgrown with weeds. Beyond the perimeter fence, the illuminated silhouette of the Manhattan skyline loomed through the fog, vast, cold, and indifferent.

A single line of three black armored SUVs pulled silently through the rusted iron gates of the pier, their headlights turned off, moving only by the pale amber glow of the security lights mounted on the crane towers.

The vehicles came to a stop beside a dark warehouse near the water’s edge.

Inside the middle SUV, Dominic sat in the backseat, wearing a dark trench coat over a heavy suit. Beside him sat Elena, dressed in a sleek charcoal coat, her dark hair pulled back into a neat braid.

On the seats across from them lay two heavy leather cases containing encrypted satellite laptops and printed financial dossiers.

Dominic looked out the tinted window at the fog sweeping across the dark river water.

“Moretti’s team is already here,” Dominic observed, pointing toward two dark sedans parked near the edge of the dock, their exhaust pipes emitting steady plumes of white vapor into the freezing air.

“Are you sure Paulie Rossi followed your instructions?” Elena asked, checking her watch. It was 11:45 PM.

“Paulie is sitting in the front vehicle with Vincent,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into a low, lethal register. “He knows that if he stammers or gives Moretti a sign that this is a setup, Vincent will put a bullet through his spine before he can take two steps.”

Elena picked up her small leather briefcase, holding it on her lap. Her hands were perfectly steady.

“Are you nervous, Elena?” Dominic asked, turning his head to look at her.

“I spent six years waiting for this night, Dominic,” Elena replied, meeting his gaze directly. “Nervousness is for people who aren't sure of their plan. I am entirely sure of mine.”

Dominic nodded slowly, a dark look of pride passing over his features.

“Good,” Dominic said. “Because Anthony Moretti isn't a businessman. He’s a street dog who bought his way into a suit. He thinks because he has fifty armed men in New Jersey that he can bully his way into my ports. Tonight, I am going to show him what happens when you try to take food from a lion’s table.”

The SUV door opened, and Vincent’s scarred face appeared in the opening.

“Boss,” Vincent whispered. “Moretti just stepped out of his car. He brought four armed men with him. Paulie is stepping out now.”