Chapter 8: Pier 14
The warehouse at Pier 14 smelled of salt water, diesel exhaust, and wet cedar. The rain hammered against the corrugated tin roof like a drumbeat. Mateo Rossi stood in the center of the loading bay, surrounded by eight armed mercenaries.
When the side door creaked open, only Vincent walked in. No overcoat, just his black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his hands hanging loosely at his sides.
"You're late, Cane," Rossi chuckled, spreading his arms wide. "I thought maybe you were busy tucking the kid into bed."
Vincent didn't stop until he was ten paces away. "You made a mistake, Mateo."
"Did I? You're outmanned, outgunned, and your syndicate is fracturing. You give me the waterfront distribution, and maybe I let your little family live in peace down in Florida."
Vincent tilted his head. "You think I came here to protect my business?"
A sudden red laser dot appeared on Rossi’s chest. Then another on his forehead. Around the catwalks above, the shadows shifted, revealing a dozen tactical operators in unmarked gear—federal agents from the Organized Crime Task Force.
Assistant Director Miller stepped out from behind a stack of crates, flashing a badge. "Mateo Rossi, hands where we can see them. Drop the weapons."
Rossi’s face twisted in disbelief. "You rat! You called the feds?!"
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"I didn't call them," Vincent said calmly, watching the mercenaries drop their guns. "I gave them your ledgers, your bank accounts, and your safehouses. I retired thirty minutes ago, Mateo. You’re just the last piece of trash they needed to pick up."
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