The mahogany double doors clicked shut behind Myra with a heavy, final sound, sealing off the muffled echoes of Nico’s laughter and Chloe’s mocking whispers.

The night air at Pier 44 was thick with the stench of salt water, diesel exhaust, and burning rubber. Ten massive shipping containers formed a barricade around the central loading bay, casting long, menacing shadows under the flickering yellow halogen floodlights.

Two black Cadillac Escalades idled near the edge of the dock. Standing beside them was Salvatore Maroni—a heavy-set, silver-haired boss from the Chicago syndicate, holding a thick Cuban cigar in one hand and a gold-plated submachine gun in the other.

“I heard the Casaro house was falling apart,” Maroni shouted over the howling wind coming off the East River. “Where’s your golden boy, Leo? Still crying in his bedroom?”

From the shadows of the main warehouse, heavy iron doors slid open with a deafening screech.

Leo Casaro stepped out first, his long charcoal overcoat billowing behind him in the wind like the wings of a dark angel. But it wasn't Leo who made Maroni’s men freeze in their tracks—it was the woman walking step-for-step beside him.

Myra wore her red silk dress like a battle standard, her bare feet replaced by heavy tactical boots, her hair tied back in a tight, efficient braid. She didn't look like a hostage or a grieving girlfriend; she looked like an executioner.

“Nico isn't running things anymore, Maroni,” Leo’s voice cut through the wind, cold and resonant. “You want the Brooklyn docks? You have to go through us.”

Maroni laughed, spitting his cigar onto the wet concrete. “You brought a civilian to a war zone, Leo? Have you lost your mind? Boys, slaughter them all!”

Before Maroni’s enforcers could raise their weapons, the rooftop above the loading bay erupted.

Red laser sights danced across the chests of the Chicago hitmen. Casaro snipers stationed on the gantry cranes locked onto their targets with absolute precision. But before a single shot could be fired from above, Myra raised her Glock 19 with both hands and fired three rapid shots into the engine block of Maroni’s lead Escalade.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The radiator exploded in a blinding geyser of steam and white-hot coolant, trapping Maroni’s men in the crossfire.

Panic erupted among the Chicago crew. They scrambled for cover as the Casaro enforcers swarmed out of the shadows from every direction, cutting off their escape routes.

Maroni stumbled backward, his face pale with sudden, terrifying realization. He raised his gun toward Leo, but before his finger could squeeze the trigger, a single gunshot echoed through the night.

Maroni dropped his weapon, screaming as a bullet tore clean through his right shoulder, spinning him around and slamming him hard against the side of a steel container.