"The Billionaire Mob Boss Was Moments Away From a Power Marriage—Until Four Mini-Me Boys Walked Into a Restaurant Restroom and Blew Up His Entire Empire!"

The fog rolled off the black water of Boston Harbor like thick, suffocating smoke, muffling the rhythmic lapping of the tide against the rotting wooden pilings of the abandoned coal wharf. The air smelled of salt, rusted iron, and the distinct, sulfurous tang of diesel exhaust.

Crouched in the shadows of an overturned industrial hopper, I watched through night-vision goggles as two low-profile tactical rafts emerged from the gloom. The rafts were powered by silent electric outboards, gliding smoothly through the gentle swell before bumping against the moss-covered slipway.

Eighteen men in black neoprene drysuits and tactical vests scrambled onto the wooden planks, carrying heavy, watertight pelican cases. At the rear of the second raft, stepping onto the wharf with a high-powered tactical carbine slung over her shoulder, was Sloane Barrett.

She wore a dark tactical jacket, her blonde hair tucked tightly beneath a watch cap, but her porcelain features were contorted with that same haughty, entitled rage she had displayed in the conservatory three months ago.

"Move quickly," Sloane hissed to her lead mercenary, her voice cutting through the mist. "Stack the crates against the interior bulkhead of Warehouse 4. Break the seals and scatter the contraband on the loading pallets. The anonymous tip to the DEA is scheduled for exactly 6:00 AM. When the feds arrive, Dominic Moretti will be in handcuffs before breakfast."

"I thought I taught you better than to break into my property, Sloane," my voice rolled out of the darkness, amplified by the natural acoustics of the concrete seawall.

Sloane gasped, spinning around as her mercenaries brought their weapons up in panic.

Before a single round could be chambered, four heavy industrial halogen floodlights, mounted to the tops of the coal cranes, blazed to life in a blinding, synchronized flash. The sudden glare illuminated the entire wharf in stark, unforgiving white.

Lining the upper catwalks and surrounding the landward exits of the slip were thirty Moretti enforcers, led by Capo Renaldo and Capo Ricci, their rifles trained squarely on the mercenaries below. Uncle Vincenzo stood leaning against a concrete pillar with a smoldering cigar between his teeth, holding a tactical detonator that controlled the magnetic perimeter gates behind them.

"Drop your weapons and kick them into the tide," Christian’s voice boomed over a megaphone from the catwalk. "You have five seconds before we open fire."

The mercenaries took one look at the overwhelming tactical superiority, the fortified positions, and the cold, unyielding faces of the North End veterans staring down at them. One by one, they dropped their carbines onto the wet planks, raising their hands in utter defeat.

Sloane stood frozen, her carbine still clutched in her trembling hands, her chest heaving beneath her vest as I walked down the wooden ramp toward her, my long dark coat fluttering in the sea breeze.

"You arrogant, low-class bastard!" Sloane screamed, raising the weapon toward my chest. "You ruined my family! You ruined my life for that gutter tramp and her four little bastards! I should have killed them in Chicago when Julian had their address!"

Those words sealed her fate.

I didn't draw my gun. In two blindingly fast strides, I closed the distance between us, my gloved hand clamping onto the barrel of the carbine, twisting it viciously out of her grip with a sharp snap that sent the weapon skittering into the dark harbor water. Before she could scream, my other hand caught her by the collar of her tactical vest, lifting her until her boots barely skimmed the wet wood.

"You mention my wife or my sons again, Sloane," I whispered, my voice so low, so utterly void of humanity that her face drained of every drop of color, "and the Coast Guard won't find a single trace of this boat or anyone on it. Do you understand me?"

Sloane began to shake uncontrollably, the thin veneer of high-society bravado shattering into pathetic, sobbing terror. She nodded frantically, tears cutting clean lines through the sea salt on her cheeks.

"Christian," I commanded, dropping her onto the damp planks like a sack of spoiled laundry. "Signal the Coast Guard cutters waiting outside the harbor. Hand over the cargo, the boat, and Miss Barrett. Let her share a defense attorney with her father."

Renaldo and Ricci jogged down the ramp, their men securing the prisoners with zip-ties with practiced efficiency. As Renaldo passed me, he caught my eye, a begrudging, deeply respectful grin cracking his weathered face.