Chapter 4 - THE TRAP BENEATH THE DOCKS
The iron door didn't just open—it blew inward with a deafening roar that shook dust from the vaulted brick ceiling.
Before the smoke could clear, automatic gunfire chewed through the concrete pillars around them. Dominic shoved Maren behind a massive generator housing, returning fire with the submachine gun, his decades of underworld survival kicking into overdrive. Two men in expensive bespoke suits dropped before they could adjust their aim, but the sheer volume of lead tearing through the air made moving impossible.
"We're pinned!" Dominic yelled over the roar of gunfire.
"Not yet," Maren shouted back, her voice terrifyingly steady. She didn't flinch as a chunk of concrete grazed her cheek, drawing a thin line of crimson.
From the shadows behind the attackers, a low, guttural snarl echoed through the chamber. General didn't charge blindly; the scarred dog leaped onto a stack of steel drums, vaulted over the low wall, and slammed directly into the throat of the lead gunman. The element of surprise shattered the enemy's formation for three critical seconds.
That was all Dominic needed. He lunged out from behind the generator, his pistol barking twice with lethal precision, dropping the remaining two guards flanking the doorway.
Silence rushed back into the room, broken only by the wet sound of heavy breathing and the steady dripping of water from the pipes above.
"Nice shot," Maren said, casually stepping over a bleeding capos without so much as a flinch.
"Where did you learn to move like that?" Dominic asked, staring down at her with a mixture of awe and horror. No nine-year-old child should know how to clear a room.
"When you live in the walls of a city run by monsters, you study how they hunt," she replied simply, pushing open the heavy mahogany double doors that led directly into the dry dock’s private boardroom.
Ronan Shaw sat at the head of a massive mahogany table, a glass of amber whiskey in his hand, laughing at something a syndicate boss had just said. The laughter died instantly when the heavy doors creaked open, revealing Dominic—bleeding, battered, but upright—flanked by a scarred street dog and a child holding a live detonator.
CHAPTER 5 A FAMILY REUNION
The glass of whiskey slipped from Ronan’s fingers, shattering against the Persian rug with a dull, wet thud. For three seconds, the entire room—packed with the city's most feared kingpins—froze in collective disbelief.
"You..." Ronan whispered, his face draining of all color as he scrambled backward, knocking his leather chair over. "You were supposed to be dead. Drake swore you were dead!"
"Drake lacks imagination," Dominic said, stepping into the warm, cigar-smoke-filled room. His boots left wet, crimson prints on the expensive carpet. "Just like you, Ronan. You thought you could inherit an empire by stabbing the man who built it in the back."
One of the syndicate bosses to Ronan’s left slowly reached toward his jacket holster, his eyes darting toward Dominic’s bandaged side.
Before his fingers could even graze the grip of his weapon, a sharp, metallic click echoed across the silent room.
All eyes snapped toward Maren. She stood just inside the doorway, her thumb resting casually on the red toggle of the C4 detonator wired to a heavy vest strapped beneath her oversized jacket. Her amber eyes were fixed entirely on Ronan.
"Try it," Maren said, her voice carrying a chilling, adult finality. "I've been holding this charge for three years, and my finger is very tired."
"Who the hell is this brat?" the syndicate boss shouted, sweating profusely under the weight of Maren's unblinking stare. "Ronan, get your men to—"
"Shut your mouth," Dominic commanded, his voice carrying the full, terrifying authority of a man who had ruled the city's underworld for two decades. "This is Thomas Vance’s daughter. You remember Thomas, don't you, gentlemen? The man Ronan had thrown into the harbor because he found out our books were being used to launder cartel blood money."
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Whispers erupted around the table. The kingpins began shifting uncomfortably, realizing in real-time that Ronan hadn't just ousted Dominic—he had built his entire fragile coalition on a foundation of stolen blood and exposed secrets.
"He's lying," Ronan spat, panic cracking his voice as he pulled a concealed snub-nosed revolver from his waistband. "Kill them! Kill them all right now!"
