The city was still waking when Vincent's car rolled through the gates of the east docks. The air was thick with diesel fumes, sea salt, and the kind of silence that followed after trouble. Men in work jackets stood stiff as he passed, their eyes darting anywhere but his face.
He didn't waste time with greetings.
"Report," he barked, striding toward a group huddled near the largest crate.
One of his lieutenants, Luca, stepped forward, face pale. "Dock security's doubled since last night. Customs is all over our containers. They've got orders to search everything."
Vincent's jaw flexed. "And?"
"And…" Luca hesitated. "They knew exactly which containers to hit first. Schedules, access codes… someone fed them our playbook."
Vincent's voice dropped to a dangerous murmur. "You telling me we've got a leak?"
"Not just that," Luca said grimly. "We traced the first tip-off. It came from a private channel… one Damien had access to."
The name hung in the air like a curse.
Vincent's hand curled into a fist. For a moment, the noise of the harbor dulled — replaced by the echo of Damien's smug voice from earlier that morning, offering "help" he hadn't asked for.
Before he could reply, his phone buzzed. Unknown number. He answered without hesitation.
"Vincent," a voice purred on the other end, thick with mockery. Marco.
"You should see the view from here," Marco continued. "Your containers, your men running in circles… it's almost beautiful."
Vincent's lip curled. "Enjoy the view while you can, Marco. You won't be breathing long enough to remember it."
A low chuckle. "Tell me, cousin—"
Vincent froze. Cousin. His eyes narrowed.
Marco's tone sharpened. "Oh, did I spoil Damien's little surprise? He's been very… helpful. You might even say he's family to me now."
The line went dead.
Vincent stood in the middle of the pier, fog curling around him like smoke. Betrayal burned in his veins, hotter than rage. Damien wasn't just an opportunist — he'd crossed the line and joined the enemy.
He was halfway to his SUV when his phone rang again. Father.
"It's handled," he said without preamble.
"You don't sound like it's handled," came the deep, commanding voice of Victor Moretti — Vincent's father, and one of the most feared mafia heads on the eastern seaboard. "I heard about your dock problem. Give me an hour and I'll have every customs officer in the city blind."
"I don't need you pulling strings," Vincent replied, gaze locked on the crane lowering a container to the pier. "I'll settle it myself."
"You've got enemies circling, son," Victor pressed. "If I'm right about Marco's involvement, he's not coming for your business. He's coming for your life. Let me send men."
"This is my war. I'll win it my way."
A pause — then a low, dark chuckle. "Pride will kill you faster than bullets. But fine. Prove yourself. Just don't come crawling to me when Marco takes everything."
The call ended. Vincent slipped the phone away, jaw tight. His thoughts flickered — the containers, the betrayal… and Elena.
She'd been tense last night. Watching him with those guarded eyes. And Damien… Damien had been watching her too. A muscle twitched in Vincent's cheek. He could turn back now. Go to the mansion. Make sure she was where she belonged.
But a faint smirk tugged at his mouth. She couldn't get far. Not with the tracker stitched neatly beneath her skin. Let Damien watch her. Let him think he had the upper hand. She wasn't going anywhere Vincent couldn't find her. And Marco? Marco would learn the cost of crossing him — personally.
He turned to Rocco. "Lock this place down. No one leaves until I know every detail of how they pulled this off."
Across the harbor, in a dark-paneled office high above a waterfront casino, Marco leaned back in his leather chair, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, spinning a poker chip with the other. Around him, his men laughed over a private card game, but his eyes were fixed on the skyline like a predator watching distant prey.
A man entered, bowing his head. "It's done. Customs has the schedules. Dock work's already halted."
Marco's smirk was deliberate, patient. "And Damien?"
"He's with her now."
"Good." Marco swirled the whiskey in his glass. "Vincent's two greatest weaknesses — his business and his… pet — both in play. Let's see which one he runs to first."
"You think he'll go for her?" the man asked.
Marco chuckled. "Oh, he'll think about it. But Vincent's arrogant. He believes no one can touch what's his. He'll stay at the docks. That gives Damien all the time he needs." The poker chip clicked between Marco's fingers. "Either way, Vincent loses."
At the mansion, the silence pressed in like heavy velvet. Elena moved like a shadow down the hallway, every creak in the floor making her heartbeat thud harder. Vincent's men were still here, posted near entrances, murmuring into radios, but quieter now — a predator's stillness before a strike. She'd memorized their patrols over weeks of observation.
Damien's words from earlier coiled in her mind: I can make the locks disappear, the guards vanish…
At the east wing's service corridor, she found the latch on the side door already loose. Her pulse jumped.
The cold air hit her first — then the low growl of an engine. Damien's black sedan was idling just beyond the hedge, sleek and unremarkable enough to be invisible from the guard post. The passenger door swung open like an invitation.
He sat behind the wheel, one arm draped lazily over it, cigarette smoke curling into the night. That smirk spread slowly when he saw her. "I was starting to think you'd changed your mind."
She glanced back at the mansion. No alarms. No shouting. Not yet.
"Get in," he said simply.
Her legs moved before her mind caught up. The door shut with a muted click, and Damien eased the car forward, hugging the tree line until the road opened up.
Only then did her voice break the silence. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere Vincent won't find you," Damien said, smooth, almost amused. "Unless you want him to."
Her hands tightened in her lap. "Why are you doing this?"
He didn't answer right away. The corners of his mouth lifted, but the warmth never reached his eyes. "Let's just say… I like collecting rare things. And you? You're about as rare as they come."
The road ahead split — one route toward the city, another into a darker, emptier stretch beyond. Damien didn't hesitate. He took the latter.
At the docks, Rocco returned, expression carved from stone. "We traced the comms. Damien's been in contact with Marco for weeks. This wasn't a leak, boss. It was a setup."
Vincent's smirk was gone, replaced by something colder. "Then Marco thinks he's already won."
"What's the play?" Rocco asked.
"No calls. No middlemen," Vincent said. "I want to look Marco in the eye when I take everything from him."
"But what about—" Rocco stopped himself.
"She's not going anywhere," Vincent said flatly, but the words rang like a challenge to fate.
In his casino office, Marco leaned forward as one of his men whispered in his ear. The man nodded. "Damien's out of the mansion. He has her."
Marco's smile widened, slow and hungry. "Perfect. Tell him to keep her close. If Vincent makes it out of the docks alive, we'll have the one thing he can't afford to lose."
He raised his glass in a mock toast to the empty air. "To family… and how sweet it is to use them against you."
On the highway, the city lights faded from the rearview mirror. Elena shifted uneasily. "This isn't the city."
Damien's smirk deepened. "No, sweetheart. It's not."
Her chest tightened. "Where are we going?"
He flicked the ash from his cigarette out the window. "Somewhere the rules are different. Somewhere you'll have to decide real quick who you're safer with — me… or the man you're running from."
The car didn't slow.
Elena's gaze darted to the door handle, to the blur of trees rushing past. She'd escaped the mansion… but the truth coiled in her gut like ice. She might have just traded one cage for another.