Chapter 6 - THE STRIKE AT DOCKS 44
The peace didn't last forty-eight hours.
At 2:00 AM on the third night, the red emergency alarm in the townhouse's basement security hub began to pulse with a low, rhythmic strobe.
Nora bolted awake in the guest suite, her heart hammering against her ribs. Before she could even throw off the duvet, the door swung open, and Damon stepped inside.
He was dressed for war. Black tactical turtleneck, heavy combat trousers, a tactical holster strapped across his broad chest containing a suppressed Sig Sauer, and a face carved entirely out of cold, ruthless ice.
“Get up,” Damon commanded, his voice sharp as a razor.
“What’s happening?” Nora asked, sitting up and clutching the sheet to her chest.
“Viktor didn't just leave after he was thrown out,” Damon said, his eyes scanning the hallway outside. “He sold our primary shipping manifests to the Italian syndicate. Right now, a strike team is hitting Dock 44—our main container yard on the river. They’re trying to burn our inventory and take out my regional captains in one sweep.”
“And Milo?” Nora asked, her voice tight with panic.
“Marcus is securing the panic room on the lower level,” Damon said, walking over and extending a hand to pull her out of bed. “I need you down there with him. Do not open that door for anyone—do you hear me? Anyone—unless I am standing right beside them.”
Nora looked up into his dark, storm-gray eyes. She didn't see a mob boss right now. She saw a father preparing to walk into a slaughterhouse to protect his home.
“Be careful,” she whispered, her hand lingering in his grip longer than was professional.
Damon stared down at her, a strange, profound vulnerability flashing across his features before he pulled his hand away, turning sharply on his heel.
“Marcus!” Damon barked into his comms. “Move!”
Within seconds, the townhouse was swallowed by the roar of armored vehicles peeling out of the underground garage, leaving Nora, Mrs. Gable, and Milo locked in the reinforced panic room deep beneath the earth.
For the next four hours, the world outside was reduced to distant, muted concussions of gunfire and the muffled roar of explosions echoing across the East River.
Milo clung to Nora’s lap, shaking with every distant boom, while Mrs. Gable sat nearby with a radio scanner pressed to her ear, listening to the chaotic chatter of police bands and syndicate frequencies.
“Status?” Nora asked, her voice strained as she stroked Milo’s hair.
“Damon’s team pushed them back from the main warehouse,” Mrs. Gable reported, her knuckles white as she gripped the radio. “The Italians tried to flank the administrative office, but... sweet mother of God.”
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“What?” Nora’s breath caught.
“Damon went in alone through the upper gantry,” Mrs. Gable whispered, her eyes wide. “He took out four men before they even realized he was in the rafters.”
