Chapter 7 - The Strike at Pier 14
For two weeks, the estate became a sanctuary.
Wren didn't go back to the bistro. Nathaniel bought the restaurant through a shell company, gave the staff a twenty percent raise, and placed Dahlia on a paid leave of absence while his men reorganized the management.
Wren spent her days at the hospital visiting her mother, who was recovering rapidly under the care of the state's top specialists. Every evening, she returned to Federal Hill, where Samson would wait for her at the front door, his broad tail thumping a steady rhythm against the floorboards.
A quiet intimacy bloomed between her and the syndicate boss. They ate dinner together every night—not with orders or commands, but with long, quiet conversations about books, medicine, and the city they both knew from different sides of the tracks.
Then, on a dark Thursday morning, the peace shattered.
At three in the morning, the emergency telephone on Nathaniel’s bedside table rang.
Wren woke up in her room across the hall, hearing the sharp sound of raised voices downstairs. She pulled on a robe and hurried down the marble staircase.
In the grand foyer, Nathaniel stood surrounded by six of his senior lieutenants. He was wearing his black tactical coat, a heavy suppressed pistol holstered across his chest. His face was set in a mask of dark, murderous fury.
"What happened?" Wren asked, her heart sinking.
Nathaniel turned to her, his expression tightening. "Marcus Vane just raided Pier 14. He took three of my cargo ships and burned two warehouses. He left a message on the dock wall."
Wren swallowed hard. "What message?"
"Your name," Nathaniel spat coldly. "He thinks if he threatens you at the docks, I'll trade my shipping rights to keep you safe."
"Nathaniel, no," Wren gasped, stepping forward to grab his arm. "It's a trap! He wants you to go down there!"
"I know it's a trap," Nathaniel said softly, placing his hand over hers. "That's why I'm going to finish it tonight."
He turned to his head of security. "Keep four men on the perimeter. Lock down the estate gates. No one enters or leaves until I return."
"Nathaniel—"
"Stay inside, Wren," Nathaniel commanded, his eyes locking onto hers with absolute finality. "Samson stays with you."
He turned and strode out the heavy front doors, his men falling into line behind him as four armored SUVs roared down the driveway into the rainy night.
The house went dead quiet.
Wren stood in the center of the foyer, her hands trembling. Beside her, Samson let out a low, uneasy whine, his ears pricked toward the front door.
An hour passed. Then two.
At five in the morning, the power in the mansion suddenly cut out.
The crystal chandeliers went dark. The emergency generators kicked in with a dull hum, throwing long, eerie red shadows across the high marble walls.
Outside the grand front windows, the sound of suppressed gunfire echoed through the storm—THWIP-THWIP-THWIP—followed by the heavy thud of bodies hitting the wet grass.
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Samson stood up instantly. A low, terrifying growl rattled deep within his chest, his upper lip pulling back to reveal row upon row of gleaming teeth.
The front doors were kicked inward with a deafening CRASH.
