CHAPTER 3: THE AMBUSH AT PORT 42
CHAPTER 3: THE AMBUSH AT PORT 42
The security detail didn't take me home. Or rather, they tried to.
Marco, Dominic’s trusted driver and a former military operative, kept his eyes glued to the rearview mirror as the heavy black SUV navigated the rain-slicked streets of Chicago. The downpour had started twenty minutes ago, turning the city into a blur of neon lights and dark concrete.
"Miss Bennett, please relax," Marco said, his voice gruff but sympathetic. "Mr. Moretti has everything under control. He has forty men securing the perimeter of Port 42. Bianchi is an idiot playing a game he doesn't understand."
"If Bianchi is an idiot, why does he know my name, Marco?" I countered, my hands gripping the leather seat. My mind was spinning, replaying the raw terror and fury I had seen in Dominic's eyes before he left. Because it matters. Because you matter. If Dominic went to that pier alone, or if Bianchi had an ace up his sleeve, Dominic could die. The thought made my throat close up with a terrifying, suffocating panic.
Suddenly, a loud, violent thud shook the SUV.
Before I could scream, a heavy gray delivery truck rammed into our side, forcing the SUV off the road and onto the sidewalk. The tires screeched in protest. Marco swore loudly, spinning the steering wheel, but another vehicle—a dark sedan—slammed into our front bumper, pinning us against the brick wall of an abandoned warehouse.
"Ambush!" Marco shouted, drawing his weapon from his jacket in a single, lightning-fast motion. "Eva, get down under the seat! Now!"
Gunfire erupted outside. The terrifying, metallic clink-clink-clink of bullets hitting the reinforced, bulletproof glass of the SUV echoed through the cabin. I dived to the floorboard, curling into a ball, my hands covering my ears as the world turned into absolute chaos. Through the gap between the seats, I saw Marco open his door, firing back into the dark rain, his face tight with grim determination.
But there were too many of them.
I heard a grunt of pain, and Marco fell backward against the steering wheel, clutching a bleeding wound in his shoulder. The driver’s side door was kicked wide open, and a cold blast of rain washed over me. A heavy, rough hand reached into the back seat, grabbing my arm with bruising force and ripping me out of the vehicle.
"Got her!" a man shouted into the night.
I fought back with everything I had. I slammed my heel down onto his foot, scratched at his face, and bit the hand covering my mouth. He cursed loudly, striking me across the cheek. The force of the blow sent a blinding flash of pain through my head, and my taste buds flooded with copper. Before I could recover, a heavy black hood was pulled over my face, plunging me into absolute darkness. I was thrown into the back of a van, the floor smelling of rust and gasoline, and the vehicle sped away into the night.
When the hood was finally ripped off my head, the light blinded me.
I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my vision. I was tied securely to a heavy iron chair in the middle of a massive, echoing shipping warehouse. The smell of salt water, rotting wood, and wet metal told me exactly where I was: Port 42. Through the cracked windows high above, I could hear the rhythmic, heavy crashing of Lake Michigan’s waves.
Standing in front of me was Victor Bianchi.
He was a sleazy, thickset man in his late forties, wearing an expensive silk suit that did nothing to hide his greasy, thuggish aura. He held a half-empty glass of whiskey in one hand and a cigar in the other. Surrounding him were at least a dozen heavily armed men.
"Well, well," Bianchi sneered, walking up to me and using the cold barrel of his gun to tilt my chin upward. "Moretti’s little secretary. I have to admit, the ice king has good taste. You’re much prettier than the girls he usually keeps around for show."
I spat the blood from my mouth right onto the polished leather of his shoe. "He’s going to kill you, Bianchi. You have no idea what you’ve just done."
Bianchi laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed off the high rafters. "Kill me? With what? Moretti is smart, but he’s blinded by you. He thinks he’s keeping his hands clean with his art auctions, but we all know who he is. I’ve spent the last six months tracking his shipments, his bank accounts, his movements. And do you know what I found, sweetie?"
He leaned in close, his foul breath washing over my face.
"I found out he has a weakness. For eight months, he hasn't looked at another woman. He hasn't let anyone get within ten feet of his private office except you. When my men posted that fake charity gala photo online last night through a dummy account just to see how he'd react... he went completely off the grid within three seconds. He called you. He broke his own rules. That’s when I knew I had him."
My heart froze. The photo. It wasn't an accident. It wasn't Caleb’s silly post. Bianchi’s people had orchestrated the visibility, tracking Dominic’s digital footprint, waiting for him to slip up. They had used my innocence as a trap.
"He’s not coming for the paintings, Eva," Bianchi whispered maliciously, tapping his gun against my cheek. "He’s coming for you. And when he steps through those doors, my men are going to turn him into Swiss cheese. Then, I take over the Moretti empire, and I might just keep you around as a prize."
"You're wrong," a calm, terrifying voice echoed from the darkness of the warehouse entrance.
Bianchi snapped around, his men instantly raising their rifles.
The heavy iron doors of the warehouse had been forced open, silhouetted against the dark, stormy night outside. Standing there, completely alone, was Dominic Moretti. His coat was gone. He stood in his charcoal trousers and his white shirt, completely soaked by the rain. He didn't have a weapon in his hands. His arms hung loosely at his sides.
But his face—god, his face was the terrifying visage of a god of war.
"Moretti!" Bianchi shouted, stepping back behind two of his largest bodyguards. "You actually came alone! You really are a fool!"
Dominic walked forward slowly, his boots thudding rhythmically against the concrete. He didn't look at Bianchi. His eyes were locked entirely on me. He saw the blood on my lip, the bruise forming on my cheek, and the ropes binding my wrists. I saw the exact moment the last shred of his humanity evaporated. The gold flecks in his eyes didn't spark—they caught fire.
"I gave you an order, Bianchi," Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly quiet, yet it carried over the roar of the storm outside. "You didn't listen."
"I have twelve men with automatic weapons pointed at your heart, Moretti!" Bianchi yelled, his voice betraying a sudden, desperate edge of panic. "One word from me and you're dead!"
"You think you have twelve men," Dominic replied smoothly, stopping twenty feet away.
He raised his right hand and made a single, distinct snap with his fingers.
Instantly, the high glass windows of the warehouse shattered inward. Heavy flashbang grenades rained down onto the concrete floor, exploding in a blinding, deafening cascade of white light and thunderous sound. Bianchi’s men screamed, blinded and disoriented.
Before the smoke could even clear, the shadows of the warehouse came alive. Dominic’s elite strike team—men clad in black tactical gear—descended from the rafters on ropes, their suppressed weapons firing with lethal, surgical precision. Thud. Thud. Thud. Within ten seconds, all twelve of Bianchi’s bodyguards were on the floor, disarmed or dead.
Bianchi dropped his whiskey glass, his face turning a sickly, ghostly white. He stumbled backward, drawing his gun and aiming it directly at my head. "Stay back! Stay back or I swear I'll blow her brains out!"
Dominic didn't hesitate. He didn't call out. He reached to his small of his back, drew a concealed blade, and threw it with blinding speed.
The silver metal flashed through the air, burying itself deep into Bianchi’s right shoulder. The man shrieked in agony, dropping his gun as he fell to his knees, clutching his bleeding arm.
Dominic crossed the remaining distance in two strides. He kicked Bianchi directly in the chest, sending him sprawling flat on his back. Dominic placed his heavy boot firmly on Bianchi’s throat, pressing down just enough to cut off his air supply. He pulled his matte-black handgun from his holster and pressed the cold barrel directly between Bianchi’s eyes.
"Please—Moretti—Dominic—we can make a deal!" Bianchi choked out, tears of absolute terror streaming down his face.
"There are no deals for men who touch what is mine," Dominic whispered.
He didn't hesitate. Bang.
The sound echoed through the massive space. Bianchi went entirely still.
Dominic didn't look back at the body. He dropped the gun, fell to his knees in front of my chair, and pulled his pocket knife out to slice through the ropes binding my wrists in a single, desperate motion. The moment my hands were free, he threw his arms around me, pulling me hard against his chest.
He was shaking. The most feared man in Chicago was trembling as he held me, his face buried deep into the crook of my neck, his breath ragged and desperate.
"Eva... god, Eva, I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking with an emotion he had spent a lifetime trying to hide. "I'm so sorry. I should have protected you. If I had lost you... if he had..."
"I'm okay," I cried, wrapping my arms tightly around his neck, burying my fingers in his wet black hair. "Dominic, look at me. I'm okay. You came for me."
He pulled back just enough to look at my face. His hands, rough and calloused, gently cupped my cheeks, his thumbs wiping away the blood on my lip with heartbreaking tenderness.
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"I will always come for you," he vowed, his eyes burning with a fierce, absolute devotion that left no room for doubt. "No more secrets, Eva. No more hiding. You are my world. And I will burn down anyone who tries to take you from me."
And there, in the middle of a ruined warehouse, surrounded by the remnants of a war he had fought to save me, Dominic leaned in and pressed his lips to mine. The kiss was fierce, desperate, full of hunger and a possessiveness that consumed me entirely. It was a vow signed in blood and rain, and as I kissed him back, I knew there was no turning back. I belonged in his dark world, and he belonged in mine.
