A car stopped smoothly at Bay Street Pier, about a hundred meters from the debris of the battle, its engine still purring softly-a specially modified 1994 Lincoln Town Car Executive L Series, its engine silent as a serpent's hiss, windows dark and bulletproof, and body reinforced to withstand attacks.
The rear door opened. A middle-aged man with hair greying at the temples stepped out. He wore a bespoke three-piece suit of dark charcoal wool, without a single blemish. It was Don Ernesto Morelli. His face was like carved stone-lined by time and difficult decisions, but his eyes, grey like steel, remained sharp and saw everything.
He was followed by his underboss, Silvio "The Ghost" Conti. Silvio was younger, perhaps mid-40s, with an athletic posture hidden beneath his elegant suit. His hair was neatly black, his face angular and cold, his brown eyes continuously scanning the environment warily, like a predator that never truly feels safe. His right hand-known to be able to break a man's neck with a quick motion-hung relaxed but ready at his side.
They both stood, watching the devastation left by Domenico and Morales's war. The smell of gunpowder, blood, and smoke still hung in the humid air.
"Seems the Cassano-Morales war has reached its peak," Ernesto uttered, his voice calm and measured, like a professor observing a failed chemistry experiment.
Silvio stood one step behind and slightly to the side, respecting his Don's position. "Will you join in, Don?" he asked, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "Morales is offering a tempting share. That port could be entirely ours."
Ernesto pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed it gently at his nose, filtering out the unpleasant smell of death.
"Join in?" Ernesto chuckled briefly, his voice containing cynical amusement. "Fighting among trash for a bone already chewed by another dog?" He turned to Silvio, his eyes narrowing. "Look at this, Silvio. This isn't a battle. It's a slaughter. Cassano isn't fighting for territory. He's waging a crusade for something else."
He gestured towards the Sea Raven, towards the sedan carrying Joey away. "He canceled everything-a multi-million dollar project, his legitimacy-just to ensure that boy was safe. That's not the act of a Don. That's the act of a man driven insane."
Ernesto sighed, gazing at Giuliano standing tall amidst the ruin like a general. "Morales thinks he can exploit that madness. He's wrong. You don't exploit a wounded lion; you let it rage until it exhausts itself, or you shoot it from a distance."
He stared at Silvio, and for the first time, there was a flash of hard command in his usually cold eyes. "We're not joining. We're watching. We're gathering the pieces they leave behind. And when the dust settles, we'll deal with whoever is still standing."
Silvio nodded slowly, understanding his master's strategy. "So we let them wound each other."
"Exactly," Ernesto whispered, turning his gaze back to the ruined harbor. "Let Cassano expend his energy and resources destroying Morales. Let Morales erode Cassano's power and influence. And when both are weak." He didn't need to finish his sentence.
A thin, cold smile appeared on Silvio's face. "We will be the strongest."
Without uttering another word, Don Ernesto Morelli turned and re-entered his luxurious Lincoln Town Car. Silvio opened the door for him before sitting in the front seat.
The car glided away silently, leaving the devastation behind, like a ghost watching from the shadows, patiently waiting to take the stage when the main actors have fallen. The war might belong to Cassano and Morales, but the peace-and the power-would belong to those wise enough to wait.
*
Domenico stood frozen in the middle of the ruined warehouse. Morales's words still echoed in his head, each syllable like a sledgehammer blow crushing his soul. His pieces, that image made his stomach churn.
Alberto's sudden shout from outside broke the silence. "Don! He's over there! Morales! He's running towards the container maze!"
Domenico's head snapped up. His eyes, empty moments before, now reignited with a darker, more dangerous fire. It was no longer rage, but something more primal, a hunting instinct.
He looked towards Matteo and Vittorio. "Clear the rest. Secure the area," he commanded, his voice low and hoarse, filled with undeniable authority.
Domenico lunged out of the warehouse, not waiting for their reply, snatching the nearly empty pistol from the surprised Alberto's hand.
Alberto tried to protest, "Don, wait! It must be a trap-"
Domenico was already gone, a large silhouette moving with frightening speed towards the steel labyrinth formed by stacked containers. Alberto and the others were forced to obey the order, turning to secure the perimeter with hearts filled with anxiety.
*
Inside the container labyrinth, long shadows and muffled sounds created a distorted world.
Domenico moved like a predator, listening, his senses burning. Then he heard it. The sound of hurried footsteps echoing off the steel walls ahead.
The man rounded the corner, and there, standing at the end of a dead end formed by containers, was Santiago Morales. He was no longer running, just standing casually, as if waiting.
"Cassano," Santiago uttered, a thin, arrogant smile gracing his lips. "I thought you'd be hiding behind your men's skirts by now."
Domenico raised his pistol. "Where is he, Morales?" he growled, his voice vibrating with restrained fury.
"The pretty blonde?" Santiago pretended to think. "Oh, he's on his way. But you know, actually, all of this could have been avoided. If only you weren't so arrogant." He took out a cigarette and lit it calmly, ignoring the pistol aimed at him. "It all started there, didn't it? From a worthless bag of diamonds on your ship from Antwerp."
Domenico's eyes narrowed. The sabotaged ship from the Morales cartel was carrying legal diamonds from Antwerp. They had managed to disguise the attack, and Domenico couldn't pursue legal action due to lack of evidence.
"I planned it," Santiago said proudly, exhaling smoke. "Like trapping a mouse with cheese. We knew you'd react. We knew you'd tighten security on your other valuables." He stared directly into Domenico's eyes. "Joey Carter."
Giuliano was right. It was all a message. And Domenico had fallen into the trap.
"We just had to wait," Santiago continued, his voice like a serpent's whisper. "Wait for you to be careless, and for the blonde at just the right moment. And you didn't disappoint. The security was tight, but... predictable."
Each word was torture. Domenico could feel his finger tightening on the trigger. He wanted to destroy that arrogant face.
"And your informant," Santiago chuckled. "That live execution? That wasn't for intimidation. That was to make sure you were angry. To make sure you weren't thinking clearly. To lure the old lion out of his den, blinded by rage." He dropped his cigarette. "And look at you now. Alone. Far from your palace. Exactly as we planned."
Boiling hatred and regret blinded Domenico. He growled, and his finger began to squeeze the trigger.
Ssshhht!
A small, gleaming metal object suddenly shot from the top of a container stack, striking Domenico's wrist with incredible force and precision. The pistol was wrenched from his grip and clattered noisily to the ground.
Domenico looked up, clutching his injured wrist. A man stood atop the container, about four meters above him. He wore functional black tactical clothing, his black hair cropped short, and his dark brown eyes were cold and empty like an abyss.
It was Leonhard Stahl.
The German man jumped down with unnatural silence, landing between Domenico and Santiago like a cat. In his hand, a brutal military combat knife glinted in the dim light.
"Your task is finished," Leonhard said to Santiago, his voice flat and accentless, without turning around. "The car is waiting at the end of this lane."
Santiago nodded, his smile widening. "See you around, Don Cassano. Enjoy the moment." He turned and disappeared into the labyrinth, his footsteps echoing and then slowly fading.
Domenico wanted to pursue, but Leonhard stepped forward, blocking his path. The knife was held in a low, professional grip, the blade pointing upward.
"Stand where you are, Mr. Cassano," Leonhard uttered. "This isn't personal. It's just business."
Domenico didn't answer. His rage was now focused on the obstacle ahead, ignoring the pain in his hand. Without a word, he drew a heavy wooden-handled dagger from its sheath-a weapon that had accompanied him since his youth in Calabria, its blade shorter but deadly. His primal instinct understood; this was no longer modern warfare. This was primal combat.
"I should have killed you the moment you involved Joey in that murder night," Domenico said coldly, his eyes piercing into Leonhard's.
The murder of Jacob Doyle, carried out by Leonhard, which had involved Joey on that New Year's Eve night.
"That night I couldn't back out," Leonhard twirled the knife in his hand, "and had no choice."
Domenico's teeth ground together. He didn't need to remind Leonhard of the break-in at Joey's West Village apartment that had threatened the young man's life. And Joey's kidnapping by Leonhard.
"By not killing me when you knew the truth, you regret it, Cassano." It wasn't a statement.
Leonhard attacked first. A low thrust, quick as a snake. Domenico didn't dodge; he lunged forward, his large body pivoting, using his steel-hard forearm to deflect the strike.
Clack!
The sound of metal meeting bone. Domenico felt a sharp scratch, but it was a price he was willing to pay to get within striking distance.
Domenico retaliated with a powerful horizontal slash, aimed at severing ribs. Leonhard twisted back with frustrating agility, Domenico's knife slicing only air.
They circled each other, their breaths misting in the cold air. Leonhard was a shadow dancer-fast, accurate, exploiting every opening. Two thin, fairly deep cuts appeared on Domenico's arm, and one on his thigh, spilling blood that warmed his cold skin.
"You're slow," Leonhard whispered, a cold psychosis.
Domenico didn't answer. He conserved his energy, observing to find the pattern of the attack. Leonhard moved with perfect military discipline, efficient, but predictable. He lacked the creative chaos of street fighting, the blind rage that could change everything.
Leonhard launched another attack, a feint to the head followed by a deadly thrust to the diaphragm. It was a move he had practiced thousands of times.
Domenico had seen it, noticing something in Leonhard's shoulder. Of course, the wound from the shootout with Fabio on the day of Joey's kidnapping hadn't fully healed.
Instead of retreating, Domenico stepped in, accepting the intended thrust. Leonhard's blade sliced through jacket and skin, but not deeply, as Domenico had twisted his body.
And in that dangerous close quarters, Domenico's large left hand, like an iron claw, clamped onto Leonhard's knife-wielding wrist, locking it with bone-crushing force.
Leonhard's cold eyes widened, startled. For the first time, there was a flash of something else, pain. With his still-free right hand, Leonhard reversed his knife and slashed at Domenico's thigh. The sharp blade sliced through pants and flesh, causing blood to gush. Domenico growled in pain but his grip didn't waver, instead tightening further, twisting Leonhard's wrist until the joint creaked, nearly breaking.
Feeling trapped, Leonhard pounded Domenico's head hard with the base of his palm. Stars flickered in Domenico's vision, but his blazing fury fueled him. Instead of releasing, he pulled Leonhard closer, trapping the killer's knife between their bodies.
With a sudden movement, Domenico released his grip and grabbed the nape of Leonhard's neck, pulling his head sideways and slamming it against the container wall behind them.
Thud!
A dull impact sound echoed.
Leonhard staggered, his eyes dazed. It was the opening Domenico needed.
With a movement born from decades of combat, Domenico raised his dagger. Not for a thrust, but a brutal, powerful horizontal slash aimed at the neck.
Schluck!
The sound was horrifying and definitive. The thick dagger blade sliced through jacket, skin, muscle, and artery.
Leonhard's eyes flew wide open, deep disbelief reflected in them. A hiss of air escaped his open wound before dark blood began flooding his throat. The strength in his hands instantly evaporated, the knife falling from his grip and clanging on the asphalt.
Domenico pushed him, pulling his knife out. Leonhard staggered back, hitting the container wall weakly. His trembling hand rose to his neck, trying to staunch the unstoppable wound, only to see blood gushing profusely from between his fingers. He choked, a horrible gargling sound escaping his open mouth, his body shaking violently as he fought for his final breath.
He slid down, sitting in his own pool of blood, his dying eyes staring blankly at Domenico. He, a professional hitman, had just been defeated by brutal force and more ruthless experience.
Domenico stood before him, his breath heavy and ragged. His own blood flowed freely from the wounds on his thigh and arm, dripping onto the ground and mixing with Leonhard's blood. The pain was beginning to register, making him slightly hobble as he planted his feet. He looked at the dying man. There was no sense of victory. No rage. Only a cold necessity.
Joey. Santiago.
Domenico averted his gaze from the dying Leonhard. It was finished.
Without a word, without a glance of pity, Domenico turned. His right leg felt heavy and painful, forcing him to drag it slightly. He left Leonhard there, in the deserted alley between containers, to die slowly in the cold solitude, choking on his own blood.
Domenico sped off in pursuit of Santiago, each step an agony, his own blood trail forming a gruesome path on the asphalt, a silent oath sworn with every painful stride: he would find Joey, or he would burn this world down until nothing remained.
[°•]