Chapter 6 - The Trap in the Docks
The rain had returned by Thursday afternoon, turning the sprawling concrete expanse of the Red Hook container terminal in Brooklyn into a slick, grey labyrinth of steel boxes and oil-slicked puddles.
Naomi sat in the passenger seat of Dante’s armored black Maybach, watching the windshield wipers sweep back and forth in a hypnotic rhythm. In the back seat, Titan rested his heavy head across the leather console, snoring softly, completely oblivious to the fact that they were parked outside a suspected Moretti weapons depot.
“Stay in the car,” Dante said, reaching for his door handle. He was dressed in a heavy wool overcoat, his expression carved from stone.
“I’m your behavioral consultant,” Naomi pointed out, unbuckling her seatbelt with a sharp click. “If one of Moretti’s guard dogs comes howling out of that warehouse, you’re going to need someone who speaks canine better than a nine-millimeter.”
Dante paused, glaring at her through the gloom of the car interior. “This isn't a training session, Naomi. This is a shakedown.”
“I noticed,” she retorted, opening her door before he could stop her.
She stepped out into the biting Brooklyn wind, pulling her trench coat tight around her shoulders. Dante let out a low curse, slammed his door shut, and marched around the front of the vehicle to join her, his hand resting casually near his holster.
They walked toward Warehouse 14—a massive, corrugated steel structure with faded lettering and a single rusted sliding door left slightly ajar.
As they approached, two armed men in leather jackets stepped out from the shadows of an overhang, their hands dropping toward their waistbands.
“Santoro,” the larger of the two men sneered, spitting a toothpick onto the wet concrete. “You’re a long way from New Jersey. And you brought a stray with you.”
Dante didn't break stride. “Vito. Tell your boss, Sal Moretti, that his little stunt with Gallo cost him two million dollars in shipping contracts. And if I see his men anywhere near my New Jersey estate again, I won't just shut down his docks—I’ll feed him to my dog.”
Vito’s eyes darted toward Naomi, a greasy, mocking grin spreading across his face. “Nice piece, Dante. Didn't take you for a guy who brings a girlfriend to a gunfight.”
Before Vito could finish his sentence, a low, terrifying rumble echoed from behind the Maybach.
Titan had pushed his way out of the car window—which had been cracked an inch for air—and was trotting across the wet pavement toward them. One hundred and forty pounds of muscle, scarred shoulders, and bared teeth. He didn't bark. Fighting dogs didn't waste breath barking. They just killed.
Vito’s hand flew to his gun, but he was half a second too slow.
Before the pistol cleared leather, Titan hit him like a freight train, slamming the enforcer against the corrugated steel wall with a deafening clang that echoed across the shipyard.
“Titan! Heel!” Naomi shouted sharply.
The dog froze instantly, his massive jaws hovering two inches from Vito’s throat, his chest heaving as he waited for his handler’s command. Vito slid down the wall, pale, sweating, and shaking so hard his teeth clicked together.
The second guard raised his weapon—
Bang.
Dante’s gun had cleared his holster with blurring speed. The bullet punched through the dirt a millimeter from the guard’s boot.
“Drop it,” Dante’s voice was lethal, flat, and absolute.
The second guard dropped his pistol into the mud and raised his hands.
Silence descended on the alley, broken only by the steady hiss of rain hitting the puddles.
Dante slowly lowered his weapon, slipped it back into his shoulder holster, and turned to Naomi. His heart was hammering against his ribs—not from the gunmen, but from the terrifying realization that if Vito’s gun had fired a second earlier, Naomi could have been hurt.
“I told you to stay in the car,” Dante said, his voice tight with suppressed fury.
“And I told you I’m not a decoration,” Naomi fired back, her hazel eyes flashing with adrenaline.
For three seconds, they stood inches apart in the pouring rain, chest to chest, the electricity between them crackling brighter than the lightning flashing over the Manhattan skyline in the distance.
Then Dante sighed, reached out, and pulled her wet strands of hair away from her forehead with a surprising, tender gentleness.
May you like
“You’re going to give me a heart attack, Naomi Rivers,” he muttered.
“Good,” she whispered, a breathless smile touching her lips. “It’s about time someone made you feel something.”
