Chapter 8 - Blood on the Docks
The impact of the falling container shook the entire pier, throwing Victor Moretti and Vincent Rizzo onto the slick concrete deck. The gangway collapsed into the churning black ocean below, leaving them trapped on the dock between the firing FBI agents and the towering wall of shipping containers.
I dropped the sniper rifle, drew twin pistols, and leapt down from the container stack, landing silently in the dark alleyway behind the crane.
Chaos raged all around me. Federal agents in heavy body armor were engaging Moretti’s mercenaries near the main gate, exchanging heavy automatic fire. Smoke grenades obscured the dock, smelling of sulfur and burnt rubber.
I moved through the fog like a ghost, executing two mercenaries who tried to take cover near the crane, moving relentlessly toward the fallen steel container.
"Vincent!" Victor Moretti’s frantic voice echoed through the smoke. He was picking himself up from the ground, coughing blood, clutching a submachine gun. "Get the briefcase! We take the emergency speed launch moored at the stern!"
Vincent was scrambling across the wet pavement, reaching for the steel briefcase that held the master offshore accounts—the two hundred million dollars they had killed my brother for.
I stepped out of the thick smoke, my coat blowing in the Atlantic wind, both pistols trained directly on them.
"Going somewhere, gentlemen?" I asked softly.
Victor froze. His good eye widened in absolute horror as he looked at me through the haze. "Caruso... how are you not dead?!"
"My brother built a strong family, Victor," I said, stepping closer, my voice cut through the sound of gunfire like a razor. "You should have checked the roots."
Vincent looked up from the ground, his face pale, clutching the steel briefcase to his chest. "Dominic... listen to me," Vincent stammered, his confident voice reduced to a pathetic whimper. "We can share it! Two hundred million dollars! You can take the baby, leave the country, live like a king in Spain! Just let us go!"
"You sat at my father's table for thirty years, Vincent," I said, stepping between him and the water's edge. "You held Julian when he was a baby. And you put thermite under his car for a ledger."
"He was going to ruin everything!" Vincent screamed in desperate rage. "He was a traitor to the family!"
"No, Vincent," I corrected, pulling the hammer back on my right pistol with a sharp CLICK. "Julian was the only one of us who was clean. And you murdered him."
"Kill him!" Victor Moretti roared, raising his submachine gun.
Before Victor could raise his barrel, I fired two rapid shots.
The first round struck Victor’s shoulder, knocking his weapon away; the second struck his knee, dropping the old mob boss to his hands and knees in the cold rain. He screamed in agony, clutching his shattered leg.
Vincent saw his chance. He reached into his coat pocket, pulling a concealed snub-nosed revolver, aiming it directly at my chest.
BANG!
A shot rang out—but it didn't come from my gun, nor from Vincent's.
Vincent’s eyes widened in shock. A small red hole appeared in the center of his chest. He looked down in disbelief, dropping his revolver, before slowly collapsing onto his side against the cold pavement.
I turned my head slightly.
Standing fifty yards away, framed by the red and blue flashing lights of the FBI vehicles, was Special Agent Sarah Miller—head of the Organized Crime Task Force. She held her Glock lowered slightly, smoke rising from the barrel, flanked by a dozen heavily armed federal tactical officers.
"Dominic Caruso!" Agent Miller shouted over a megaphone, her voice stern and unyielding. "Drop your weapons! The pier is completely surrounded! It’s over!"
I looked down at Vincent, who was gasping his final breaths on the wet ground, blood pooling around the steel briefcase. I looked at Victor Moretti, broken and bleeding at my feet.
The war was finished. The men who had killed my brother were ruined, their empire dismantled, their names erased.
I slowly lowered my pistols, ejected the magazines, and let the heavy weapons drop onto the concrete deck.
"Dominic Caruso," Agent Miller said, stepping forward as tactical officers swarmed the dock, securing Victor Moretti and pinning him to the ground. She looked at me with a mix of fierce authority and profound respect. "You're under arrest for federal racketeering."
I didn't resist. I held out my wrists as the cold steel handcuffs clicked into place.
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As they led me away toward the flashing police cruisers, I looked up at the dark sky, feeling the cold rain wash the blood from my face. For the first time in eighteen months, the dark weight in my chest felt light.
I had fulfilled my promise. The monsters were dead. And Julian’s child was free.
