Chapter 9 - The Waterfront WarThe fog rolling off San Francisco Bay was thick enough to swallow a cathedral whole as Sal’s black armored SUV slipped silently through the deserted shipping gates of Pier 48.
Inside the vehicle, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. I sat in the passenger seat, my fingers white-knuckled around the compact Glock 19 Roman had given me, the heavy slide cold against my palm. My gray sweatpants had been replaced by a pair of dark tactical pants Sal had scavenged from the back of the SUV, though my oversized black hoodie remained.
Beside me, Roman was sitting upright, his jaw clenched tight as he endured the agonizing burn of his freshly taped ribs. He was dressed in a fresh, charcoal-gray tailored suit that somehow managed to hide the heavy trauma harness strapped underneath to keep his torso stable.
“We go in through the loading bays on the east side,” Roman instructed, his voice low, steady, and dripping with absolute authority as he looked over the blueprint tablet Sal handed him. “Dante will have his inner circle gathered in the primary warehouse office. He thinks I’m dead, which means his guards will be complacent.”
“And if they’re not?” Sal asked, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.
“Then we paint the floor red,” Roman replied simply.
The SUV glided to a halt behind a stack of rusted shipping containers. The massive corrugated steel doors of Pier 48 loomed ahead of us, illuminated by a single harsh overhead light cutting through the creeping fog.
We stepped out into the biting salt air. The silence of the docks was heavy, broken only by the distant, mournful foghorn echoing across the bay.
Roman paused, turning his head slightly to look down at me as we reached the side entrance of the warehouse. He reached out, his gloved hand brushing gently against my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks.
“Stay behind me,” Roman commanded, his dark eyes burning with an intense, unyielding protectiveness.
“I’m not hiding behind you, Roman,” I whispered back, racking the slide of the Glock with a firm, practiced click that made Sal raise his eyebrows in grudging respect. “You may be a mafia boss, but I’m the one who patched you up. I watch your six.”
A dark, dangerous smile touched Roman’s lips. “God help anyone who crosses you, Nora.”
Sal picked the electronic lock on the side access door with a silent, fluid motion, and the heavy metal panel swung inward, revealing the cavernous, shadowy interior of the warehouse.
We slipped inside like ghosts, moving silently between towering stacks of shipping crates filled with contraband, moving steadily toward the glass-walled office suspended twenty feet above the main floor where Dante Bianchi and his capos were holding court.
Through the frosted glass, we could see shadows moving—dozens of armed men, laughing, drinking, and celebrating the supposed death of the Bianchi family patriarch.
Roman took the lead on the metal staircase, his pistol raised, his posture rigid and lethal. Sal and I flanked him tightly, our weapons drawn and scanning every shadow.
As we reached the top landing outside the office door, a guard stepped out from around the corner, holding a suppressed rifle.
Before the man could even register our presence, Roman stepped forward with terrifying speed, driving the barrel of his pistol into the guard’s throat and catching him as he slumped silently to the floor.
Roman stepped over the fallen man, reached out, and kicked the heavy glass door of the office wide open.
The room went dead silent.
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Dante Bianchi, sitting at the head of a massive mahogany conference table with a glass of scotch in his hand, froze mid-sentence. His eyes went wide, the color draining entirely from his face as he stared down the barrel of Roman’s gun.
“Hello, brother,” Roman’s voice echoed through the shocked room like thunder. “I hear you’re hosting a funeral.”
