The oak door of Lorenzo Costa’s private sanctuary shut out the muted, panicked rustle of the main dining floor.

By four o'clock in the afternoon, rain had begun to pour over the industrial district. Thick, charcoal clouds hung low over the harbor, turning the murky water of the Atlantic into churning slate.

Marco Vane had fortified himself inside his primary asset: a massive, rusted shipping warehouse at Pier 42. He knew the council had abandoned him. He knew Lorenzo Costa was coming. Like a wounded animal cornered in its den, Marco had gathered thirty heavily armed mercenaries, barricading the iron shipping containers into an improvised fortress.

Two dark SUVs rolled to a stop two blocks away from the pier, concealed behind rows of stacked steel cargo units.

Inside the lead vehicle, Lorenzo was adjusting the straps of his tactical body armor. Beside him, Vincent checked the action on a suppressed assault rifle.

"Marco has three heavy machine-gun nests covering the main bay doors," Vincent reported, showing Lorenzo a rough floor blueprint on a tablet screen. "If we hit the front entrance directly, we take heavy casualties."

"We aren't hitting the front," Lorenzo said smoothly, sliding a fresh magazine into his custom Sig Sauer. "Marco expects a traditional assault. He thinks I will trade men for ground. He forgets that I owned this pier before he leased it."

Lorenzo pointed to a small, unmarked line on the blueprint leading from the drainage canal directly under the foundation of the warehouse.

"The old smuggling tunnel," Vincent grinned, a dark, dangerous smile spreading across his scarred face. "Built during Prohibition."

"Precisely," Lorenzo said. "Vincent, take four men through the main gate as a tactical distraction. Draw their fire toward the north containers. I will take the strike squad through the floorboards."

Ten minutes later, the air at Pier 42 exploded into chaos.

Vincent’s team initiated a heavy assault on the northern perimeter, firing smoke grenades and heavy automatic bursts against the steel walls. Inside the warehouse, Marco Vane shouted frantic orders into a walkie-talkie, his face sweat-drenched and hysterical.

"Keep them at the doors!" Marco screamed, firing his revolver blind around the corner of a steel container. "Pin them on the asphalt!"

He didn't notice the heavy wooden trapdoor near the rear office rusting open.

Lorenzo stepped out of the shadows beneath the concrete staging floor, moving like an apex predator. Three estate operators followed silently behind him, their weapons equipped with heavy suppressors.

Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.

Marco’s rear guards dropped to the concrete floor without making a sound.

Lorenzo advanced through the maze of wooden crates, his eyes laser-focused on Marco Vane’s broad, shaking back. When Lorenzo was five paces away, he racked the bolt of his sidearm—a sharp, distinct sound that echoed clearly above the chaos of the gunfire outside.

Marco froze. He slowly turned around, his eyes going wide as saucer plates when he found himself staring down the barrel of Lorenzo Costa’s gun.

"Lorenzo..." Marco stammered, dropping his walkie-talkie. It clattered loudly against the floor. "Wait—listen to me! It was Richard! The boy lied to me! He told me you executed him for no reason!"

"Your nephew is still alive, Marco," Lorenzo said, his voice terrifyingly calm amid the ambient gunfire outside. "He will live the rest of his life unable to hold a spoon. But you... you sent shooters to my home."

"I can pay!" Marco pleaded, backing up until his shoulder hit a steel girder. "I have millions in off-shore accounts in Grand Cayman! Take the North District! Take everything! Just let me take a boat out of here!"

Lorenzo took one step forward, placing the cool steel barrel of his pistol directly against Marco’s forehead.