Chapter 12 - The Price of a Bullet
The docks at South Boston were desolate at midnight, whipped by freezing Atlantic winds that tasted of salt and iron. Massimo had insisted I stay at the mansion, but my stubbornness matched his own; I rode in the passenger seat of his black armored Mercedes as his newly vetted detail secured the perimeter.
We stepped out into the biting cold. Waiting beneath the skeletal steel frames of an abandoned loading crane was a man in an expensive white cashmere coat—Marcus Vance, the Chicago enforcer known for leaving nothing behind but smoking ruins.
“Massimo,” Vance purred, his breath pluming in the freezing air as he stepped forward with two armed thugs flanking him. “Word on the street was you were permanently parked in a chair. Look at you standing. Almost inspiring.”
“Save the sermon, Vance,” Massimo snapped, resting a hand casually near his holster. “You crossed into my territory. You backed Camila and Viktor’s coup. That makes you a loose end.”
Vance’s smile vanished. He flicked his wrist, and both Chicago thugs whipped their firearms out, aiming straight for Massimo’s chest.
Before I could even scream a warning, a deafening crack split the night air.
Bang.
Vance didn’t fire. A single bullet, fired with terrifying precision from the rooftop crane above, shattered the kneecap of Vance’s right-hand man. The thug screamed, collapsing onto the concrete.
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Massimo didn't even flinch. He drew his own weapon with fluid, terrifying speed, locking the barrel dead between Vance’s eyes.
“My security team is better than yours, Marcus,” Massimo whispered, the dead calm in his voice far more terrifying than a shout. “And my doctor taught me never to leave a job half-finished.”
