Chapter 7 - Retribution at the Docks
Three weeks after the wedding, the final remnants of the Martin dynasty collapsed into the sea.
The foreclosure on the Martin manor had gone through without legal resistance. Thomas, having lost his credit cards, his cars, and his friends, had attempted to flee to Canada with a stolen watch collection, only to be intercepted by Diego’s men at the Greyhound bus station and dumped on a park bench in downtown Providence with fifty dollars and a bus ticket out of state.
Arthur Martin had been transferred to the state-run nursing facility in Newport, where nurses who had never heard of the Martin family fed him oatmeal and changed his sheets without bowing.
The war was over.
Or so we thought.
It was a cold Tuesday evening when the security alarms at the Ramos estate began to wail.
I was sitting in the library, going over the architectural plans for converting our old family shipping warehouses into a community arts center—an idea Diego had suggested to completely erase my father’s footprint from the harbor—when the heavy library door burst open.
Diego stepped inside, his long wool coat dark with rain, his hand resting casually on the butt of a Sig Sauer pistol tucked into his waistband. Two armed guards flanked him.
“Stay in the safe room, Noelle,” Diego commanded, his voice tight with tactical urgency.
“What’s happening?” I stood up immediately, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“A couple of your father’s old loyalists—men who didn't get the memo that the war is over—decided to make a desperate play,” Diego said, his eyes scanning the courtyard through the reinforced glass window. “They think if they kidnap you, they can force me to hand back the docks.”
“How many?”
“Four men in a van. They breached the front gate.” Diego drew his weapon, checking the slide with a sharp, metallic click. He looked back at me, his gaze softening for a fraction of a second. “Go to the panic room. I’ll handle this.”
“No,” I said firmly, stepping around the mahogany desk.
Diego frowned. “Noelle, this isn’t a negotiation—”
“I spent twenty-four years hiding behind locked doors while men fought over me, Diego,” I interrupted, my voice ringing with absolute, unyielding steel. “I am not hiding tonight.”
Before he could argue, the sound of shattered glass echoed from the foyer. Shouts rang out, followed by the dull, concussive pop-pop of suppressed gunfire.
Diego cursed under his breath, grabbed my arm, and pulled me behind a massive stone pillar near the fireplace just as the library doors splintered inward.
Two masked men burst into the room, assault rifles raised, sweeping the shadows.
“Clear!” one of them yelled.
They didn't see us behind the pillar.
Diego moved like a ghost. He stepped out from the shadows, his pistol rising with lethal precision. Two muffled shots echoed through the room. Both men dropped instantly, collapsing onto the Persian rug without firing a single round.
“Stay behind me,” Diego ordered, sweeping forward into the hallway toward the foyer.
I followed him closely, my boots clicking against the marble.
In the grand foyer, two more of my father’s former enforcers were pinned down behind a marble pillar by three of Diego’s guards. One of them—a brutal, scarred enforcer named Vince who had once broken my collarbone for dropping a tray of tea when I was twelve—was frantically trying to reload his weapon.
“Drop the gun, Vince,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise of the foyer.
Vince froze. He turned his head, his eyes widening in sheer disbelief as he saw me standing beside the most feared crime boss in New York, wearing a cashmere sweater instead of a bridal gown, looking at him with absolute, chilling calm.
“Noelle?” Vince stammered, lowering his weapon for a fraction of a second. “What the hell are you doing with him? Your father—”
“My father is eating blended peas in a nursing home,” I interrupted, stepping out from behind Diego’s protective shoulder. “And you are standing in my house, pointing a gun at my husband.”
Vince snarled, raising his weapon to fire at me.
He didn't get the chance.
Diego’s pistol cracked once. A clean round caught Vince square in the shoulder, spinning him around and slamming him hard against the marble wall. He dropped his gun with a clatter and slid down to the floor, groaning in agony.
The remaining enforcer dropped to his knees, throwing his rifle across the floor and raising his empty hands. “Don’t shoot! We surrender!”
Diego’s guards swarmed forward, zip-tying the survivors and dragging them toward the service exit.
The foyer fell silent, save for the patter of rain against the skylight and the distant crashing of the ocean waves.
Diego slowly lowered his pistol, sliding it back into his holster. He turned around, his dark eyes scanning me from head to toe to make sure I wasn't hurt.
“You have a bad habit of refusing to stay where you’re told,” he said, though there was no anger in his voice—only a deep, burning awe.
I walked right up to him, stopping inches away. I reached out, my fingers resting against the lapel of his wet wool coat.
“If you think you’re getting rid of me that easily, Diego Ramos, you married the wrong woman,” I whispered.
May you like
Diego let out a low chuckle, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me flush against his chest. He buried his face in my hair, breathing in the scent of vanilla and rain.
The war was truly over. And we had won.
