Chapter 7 - The Trap at Pier 17
Thursday night arrived with a heavy fog that rolled off the East River, turning the docks into a labyrinth of shadows.
Damiano stood at the edge of Pier 17, his long black overcoat flapping in the cold wind. Behind him, the shadows were alive with his men, weapons ready, silencers attached. In his hand, he carried a heavy leather briefcase—but it wasn't filled with fifty million dollars. It was filled with plastic explosives.
A black SUV pulled up from the darkness of the warehouse district. Don Carmine Lucchesi, an older man with silver hair and a face like a wrinkled prune, stepped out, surrounded by eight heavily armed bodyguards.
“Moretti,” Carmine called out, his voice raspy from decades of cigars. “You brought the money for your little florist?”
“I brought your retirement fund, Carmine,” Damiano said, his voice flat and terrifyingly steady. He tossed the briefcase onto the wet wooden planks between them.
Carmine nodded to one of his men, who stepped forward and opened the case. The man’s eyes widened as he saw the digital timer blinking red.
00:03... 00:02...
“Get down!” the guard screamed.
The explosion shattered the silence of the docks, a brilliant flash of orange and white that ripped through the front of the pier. Before the smoke could even clear, Damiano’s men opened fire.
The firefight was brief, precise, and utterly devastating. The Lucchesi men were caught in a crossfire they never anticipated. Damiano moved through the fog like a ghost, his silver-plated pistol firing with lethal accuracy. He wasn't a businessman tonight; he was the executioner of anyone who dared look at Khloe Parker through a telescope.
Carmine Lucchesi dropped to his knees, a bullet through his shoulder, his weapon gone. He looked up as Damiano stopped in front of him, the barrel of his gun smoking in the cold air.
“Please, Damiano,” Carmine begged, coughing up blood. “It was just business. We needed the money...”
“You took photos of her while she slept,” Damiano said, his voice so quiet it was almost swallowed by the lapping river water. “That is not business. That is a death warrant.”
A single shot echoed across the river.
Damiano turned around, pulling his phone from his pocket. He dialed Pierce, who was stationed back at the penthouse.
“It’s over,” Damiano said. “Secure the remaining Lucchesi territories. The family is done.”
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“Boss,” Pierce’s voice came through the line, sounding strangely panicked. “We have a problem. The gray sedan... it wasn't at the pier. They bypassed our ground security. They are inside the tower.”
Damiano’s heart stopped. The world around him went completely white.
