Chapter 5 - The Rising Storm
The peaceful interlude lasted until the first snow of December. The Bruno family’s control over the South Philadelphia waterfront had always been a bloody tug-of-war, but the Albanian syndicates—led by a ruthless newcomer named Viktor Hoxha—had begun targeting the family’s distribution warehouses with a ferocity that suggested they had inside information.
Dominic spent eighteen hours a day at the social club, his desk covered in territory maps, security schedules, and police report summaries. His face had grown lean and hard under the stress, his eyes dark with a predator’s frustration.
"We have a rat, Dom," Angelo said, slamming a fist onto the table during a midnight meeting. "Viktor knew exactly which container was holding the high-end liquor shipment from Italy last night. They hit the pier at three AM, blew the locks, and cleared out two million dollars in inventory before the port authority even noticed the alarms were down."
Dominic didn't answer immediately. He was staring at a piece of surveillance footage taken from a traffic camera near the pier. In the background, leaning against a street lamp three blocks away from the heist, was a rusted Honda Civic with a dented rear bumper.
Marcus.
The piece of garbage hadn't stayed in Delaware. He had found a new partner—someone who wanted to tear down the Bruno family just as badly as Marcus wanted his twenty thousand dollars.
"Angelo," Dominic said, his voice so quiet it made the room go freezing cold. "Get the cars. We’re going to number 44."
"Boss? Why the old man’s house?"
"Because Viktor doesn't want the liquor, Angelo," Dominic said, standing up and pulling his heavy coat over his shoulders. "He wants the throne. And he knows the only way to make me drop my guard is to take the people who hold the keys."
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The drive through the snow-choked streets of South Philly took less than ten minutes, but to Dominic, it felt like a century. When the dark sedan pulled up to the curb outside his father’s house, his heart stopped.
The front door of number 44 was standing wide open, the warm light from the hallway spilling out onto the fresh white snow like a fresh wound.
