19 Seven bullets were still inside my body when Dominic Rossi married me, and I didn’t even know it was happening. While surgeons questioned whether my heart could survive another operation, New York’s most feared crime boss slipped a gold ring onto my swollen finger and told my unconscious body, “Anybody who comes for you comes through me.”

The rain came down in sheets, turning the asphalt of Dock 4 into a black, reflective mirror that shattered under the blinding glare of our SUV headlights.

The Brooklyn Navy Yard was deserted at 2:00 AM, save for a single rust-streaked cargo freighter idling against the concrete pier, its massive diesel engines vibrating through the wet night air.

Dominic’s convoy blocked both ends of the pier. Twenty armed men fanned out silently into the shadows, cutting off every escape route.

Dominic and I stepped out of the SUV into the freezing downpour. Enzo handed Dominic a heavy weatherproof trench coat, which Dominic immediately draped over my shoulders, wrapping me tightly against the biting wind.

“Stay behind the armored door of the vehicle,” Dominic instructed, his voice firm.

“I’m right behind you,” I corrected, pulling the heavy coat closer around my chest.

We moved forward through the driving rain, flanked by Enzo and Mateo. At the foot of the freighter's gangway, three of Costa’s remaining bodyguards waited with automatic weapons raised. They didn't even get a chance to fire.

Enzo and Mateo moved with terrifying synchronization—two quick, suppressed shots, and the guards collapsed silently onto the wet concrete.

Dominic didn't break stride. He climbed the steel gangway, kicked open the heavy iron door leading into the ship’s cargo hold, and stepped inside.

I followed right behind him.

The lower hold smelled of salt, damp iron, and old fuel. In the center of the cavernous space, standing beside a stack of wooden crates, was Victor Costa. He looked older than his reputation suggested—graying hair plastered to his forehead, an expensive silk suit ruined by salt water and mud, and a silver-plated Colt .45 trembling slightly in his right hand.

“Dominic,” Costa snarled, his voice echoing off the steel bulkheads. “I wondered when the young king would show up to clean his own house.”

“It’s over, Victor,” Dominic said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion as he leveled his Beretta at Costa’s chest. “Your captains are dead or in custody. Your accounts are frozen. You have nowhere left to run.”

Costa laughed—a harsh, manic sound that bounced off the metal walls. “You think you won because you married some waitress from Cleveland? You think putting a ring on a stray cat makes you untouchable?”