Chapter 8 - Fire at the Fish Pier
At 6:45 AM, a thick gray fog hung over the South Boston Fish Pier. The ocean water churned black against the rusted steel pilings, smelling of salt, dead fish, and diesel fuel.
Inside Shipping Warehouse 4, Paulie "The Hammer" Driscoll stood on an elevated steel gantry, holding an iron crowbar in his left hand and a heavy automatic pistol in his right. Around him stood twelve heavily armed mercenaries, their weapons trained on the massive sliding doors.
Tied to three wooden chairs below the gantry were three middle-aged union workers, their faces bruised, duct tape pulled tight over their mouths.
"He's not coming, Paulie!" one of the mercenaries shouted over the hum of the industrial generators. "Vance isn't stupid! He knows it's a trap!"
"He'll come," Driscoll sneered, his yellowed teeth showing through a cruel grin. "Dominic Vance thinks he's a king. He thinks his family is untouchable. Once I take his head, the Moretti family from New York will back my takeover of the harbor, and every single one of you gets a ten percent cut of the shipping lines."
Suddenly, the heavy steel sliding doors of the warehouse exploded inward with a deafening BOOM.
A massive armored construction loader smashed through the metal frame, dragging tons of twisted steel and concrete blocks behind it.
Before the mercenaries could open fire, tear gas canisters rained down from the shattered skylights above, filling the warehouse with blinding, choking white smoke.
Through the fog walked Dominic Vance.
He moved like an ancient god of vengeance, flanked by Frank and eight elite enforcers. Suppressed weapons chattered in the enclosed space—thwip, thwip, thwip—as Driscoll’s mercenaries fell one by one into the wet concrete floor.
Driscoll panicked. He scrambled backward along the gantry, firing blindly into the tear gas. "Kill him! Kill him!"
Dominic didn't duck. He walked straight up the metal stairs, his heavy boots clanging against the steel steps. When a gunman stepped out from behind a shipping crate, Dominic caught the man's arm, snapped his elbow backward with a sickening crack, and tossed him over the railing into the cold ocean below.
Driscoll reached the end of the gantry, backed up against a locked emergency door. He raised his pistol with shaking hands.
"Dominic! Wait!" Driscoll shrieked, his tough-guy demeanor completely collapsing. "It was Tate's idea! Tate wanted the money! I just went along with it!"
Dominic stopped five feet away. The smoke swirled around his broad shoulders. His dark eyes were completely void of mercy.
"You killed my wife, Paulie," Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "You made my six-year-old daughter watch her mother burn. And then you tried to murder an innocent boy in a hospital bed."
"I can give you New York!" Driscoll begged, tears mixing with the sweat on his filthy face. "I can give you the offshore accounts! Millions, Dominic! Millions!"
"I don't need your money, Paulie," Dominic whispered. "I have everything I need."
Dominic raised his weapon.
A single shot echoed through the foggy warehouse, cutting through the hum of the generators.
Paulie Driscoll’s body sagged over the steel railing before slipping silently into the dark, cold waters of Boston Harbor.
May you like
Dominic lowered his gun. He looked back down at Frank, who was busy cutting the ropes binding the three union stewards.
"Clean this up," Dominic ordered smoothly. "And call the estate. Tell Josie her brother’s surgery is about to begin."
