Chapter 6 - Smoldering Ruins
The harbor was burning. Dominic’s empire rested on those specific dry docks; they housed the legitimate shipping containers that masked his syndicate's entire supply network. Vance hadn't just come for Elena; he had orchestrated a total decapitation strike against Dominic's operations in a single coordinated hour.
Dominic didn't allow anger to dictate his movements. He waited until Vance stepped forward, boots splashing clumsily in the water, searching the gloom. As Vance crossed the threshold of the dining area, Dominic lunged from behind a structural column.
He didn't fire. He knocked the heavy revolver from Vance’s grip with a vicious strike to the forearm, driving his knee upward into the man’s ribs. Vance grunted, stumbling back, but swung a heavy, armored elbow that clipped Dominic’s cheekbone, splitting the skin.
Dominic barely registered the pain. He closed the distance, wrapping his arm around Vance's neck in a brutal sleeper hold, wrenching him backward onto the slick floor. Vance thrashed, clawing at Dominic’s tailored sleeves, trying to reach a serrated knife strapped to his thigh.
"Who paid you to burn the docks?" Dominic snarled into his ear, tightening the chokehold until Vance's face turned purple.
Vance choked, blood bubbling between his teeth, but his grin remained defiant. "Not... paid... ordered. The council... they voted you out, Dominic. You're yesterday's... trash."
With a sharp, sickening snap, Dominic broke Vance's neck and let the limp body drop onto the wet marble.
Silence fell over the ruined penthouse, broken only by the steady dripping of sprinkler water. Viktor emerged from the shadows, bleeding from a superficial cut on his shoulder, his shotgun resting against his thigh. He looked down at Vance’s lifeless eyes.
"The council turned?" Viktor asked, disbelief fracturing his normally stoic voice.
"The council wants a war they cannot survive," Dominic said coldly, wiping the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand.
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The steel door of the panic room slid open with a hiss. Dr. Evans stepped out, his surgical gloves dripping red, holding a stainless steel tray. Resting on the tray was a small, bloodied cylinder of titanium, no larger than a cigarette lighter, attached to a flashing micro-transmitter.
"I got it out," Evans gasped, exhausted. "She survived the incision. But Dominic... you need to see what's engraved on the casing."
