Chapter 4 - Blood on the DocksSaturday night arrived with a torrential downpour that lashed against the warehouse roofs of Grayhaven’s industrial waterfront.
Inside the cavernous, drafty expanse of Dry Dock 4, twelve regional capos and syndicate leaders sat around a rusted iron crate that served as a makeshift table. They wore expensive suits slick with rain, their expressions grim and predatory.
They were waiting for Adrien Duca to show weakness.
The heavy steel sliding doors at the end of the dry dock groaned open.
Water poured in from the storm outside, and out of the shadows stepped Adrien.
He didn't bring an army. He walked in alone.
He wore the midnight-blue velvet coat Clara had sewn for him, the tails of the heavy fabric swaying slightly with his steady, unhurried stride. The silver-threaded buttons gleamed under the flickering overhead work lights.
Dante Moretti—a brutal, silver-haired capo who controlled the eastern shipping lanes and had been quietly funding the mutiny—stood up, leaning heavily on a silver-handled cane.
“Well, well,” Moretti sneered, spreading his arms wide. “The grieving groom graces us with his presence. Word on the street is your senator father-in-law dumped you, your bride fled the country, and the Duca empire is rotting from the head down.”
The other capos murmured, shifting uncomfortably, their hands hovering near hidden shoulder holsters.
Adrien didn't stop walking until he was six feet away from Moretti. He looked utterly serene, his hands casually tucked into the deep pockets of his velvet coat.
“My engagement ended, Dante,” Adrien said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the hollow concrete room. “Which means I’m no longer tied down by politics. I have a lot of free time on my hands. And I find myself with a surplus of aggressive energy.”
Moretti’s smile vanished. He nodded sharply to his right.
Two armed enforcers flanking the doorway instantly drew their pistols, leveling them directly at Adrien’s chest.
“You’re outnumbered, boy,” Moretti snarled. “Hand over the waterfront codes, sign over the shipping deeds, and maybe we’ll let you walk out of here alive to rot in exile.”
Adrien didn't flinch. He didn't even blink.
“Fire,” Adrien whispered.
The enforcers pulled the triggers.
Two deafening gunshots cracked through the dry dock.
Adrien staggered back half a step from the kinetic impact, but the bullets flattened harmlessly against the hidden Kevlar weave embedded within the velvet lining of his coat. He didn't bleed. He didn't fall.
Before Moretti and his men could process the impossible sight, Adrien moved with terrifying, predatory speed.
He drew a heavy-caliber firearm from his shoulder holster, firing twice with ruthless, pinpoint accuracy, taking out both enforcers before they could cycle their chambers.
As the two men hit the concrete floor with dull thuds, Adrien crossed the remaining distance between himself and Moretti in less than a second. He grabbed Moretti by the lapels of his suit, slamming him against the iron crate with a force that rattled the entire room.
Adrien pressed the barrel of his gun directly beneath Moretti’s chin.
The remaining capos froze in absolute, frozen terror, their weapons half-drawn, paralyzed by the sheer, unstoppable dominance of the man before them.
“Does anyone else,” Adrien asked softly, his voice echoing off the wet concrete, “have questions about the state of my empire?”
Silence fell over the dry dock, heavier than the rain outside.
Moretti stared into Adrien’s black, unblinking eyes, sweating profusely, trembling in utter defeat. “We... we yield, Duca. The waterfront is yours.”
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Adrien pushed Moretti away with contempt, straightening the lapels of his midnight-blue velvet coat.
“The waterfront was always mine,” Adrien corrected coldly. “You just forgot who pays the taxes.”
