Chapter 6 - The Summit at Pier 42
The rain had returned by midnight, turning the deserted concrete expanse of Pier 42 into a slick, reflective mirror that mirrored the bruised purple clouds overhead.
There were no construction cranes here anymore. Just the skeletal steel framework of the half-built high-rise where Caleb had died eighteen months ago—a monument to greed, corruption, and corporate negligence that now stood as the final battleground for the New England syndicate.
My hand rested inside the pocket of my heavy wool coat, wrapped around the cold, checkered grip of a 9mm Walther PPK that Sal had pressed into my palm three hours earlier, giving me a five-minute crash course on how to flip the safety and pull the trigger.
“You don’t have to use it, Mrs. Miller,” Sal had muttered, his voice gravelly and grim. “Mr. Cross will burn this city to the ground before anyone lays a finger on you or your little girl. But in our world, you never walk into a room unarmed.”
I walked down the central pier behind Adrian Cross, flanked by six men in dark overcoats who moved through the driving rain like shadows.
At the far end of the pier, beneath the massive, skeletal overhang of the unfinished observation deck, three men waited.
The leader was a thickset, heavyset man with a jagged scar running from his ear down to his collar—Frankie "The Knife" Marcone, the ruthless boss of the Providence syndicate who had been financing Rossi’s surviving loyalists. Flanking him were four armed enforcers holding shotguns loosely at their sides.
"Cross," Marcone barked over the howling wind and crashing harbor waves, a cruel, mocking grin splitting his thick lips. "I wondered if the great king of Boston would actually show up himself, or if he’d send his stray dogs to die in the rain."
Adrian stopped twenty feet away from them, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his charcoal overcoat. He didn't look like a man standing before a firing squad; he looked like a landlord about to evict a tenant who was three months behind on rent.
"You stepped onto my docks, Marcone," Adrian said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the wet concrete. "You sent men to fire on a civilian vehicle carrying a six-year-old child. That’s a violation of every rule this city was built on."
Marcone let out a harsh, barking laugh, spreading his arms wide. "Rules? The old rules are dead, Adrian! You went soft. You wanted to play legitimate businessman, building charity foundations for dead ironworkers. You think you can run an empire from a glass tower in the financial district while letting your streets rot? We’re taking Boston back. Starting with your waterfront contracts—and ending with the little widow you’ve been playing house with!"
Before Marcone could finish his sentence, Adrian’s hand whipped out of his pocket.
It wasn't a warning. It wasn't a negotiation.
In the same fraction of a second, three distinct, muffled cracks echoed across the pier. Sal and two of Adrian’s enforcers fired simultaneously with military precision.
Marcone’s two right-hand enforcers dropped instantly before they could even raise their shotguns, hitting the wet concrete with heavy, lifeless thuds.
Marcone stumbled backward, his face turning an ash-gray as he clutched a shattered shoulder, staring at Adrian in sheer, unadulterated terror.
"You... you son of a bitch," Marcone gasped, blood seeping through his fingers.
Adrian walked forward slowly, stepping over a puddle that reflected the neon lights of the distant harbor. He stopped two feet away from the wounded mob boss, towering over him like an executioner.
"You wanted Boston, Marcone?" Adrian whispered, his voice dropping into a chilling, dead calm that sent a shiver straight down my spine. "It’s yours. Every square inch of it. Enjoy it."
Adrian stepped back, gesturing to Sal, who moved in with zip-ties and a black canvas hood.
May you like
The war was over. The syndicate was secured. And as Adrian turned around in the pouring rain, walking back toward me through the puddles with his dark coat billowing behind him, his gray eyes locked onto mine with a fierce, possessive intensity that told me everything I needed to know.
He had burned the world down to keep us safe.
