The scent of salt and rusted metal hung heavy in the crisp morning air at the Moretti shipping yards.
By 9:00 AM, I was standing on the elevated catwalk of Warehouse 4, flanked by Uncle Dante and two dozen heavily armed Moretti enforcers. Below us, rows upon rows of shipping containers held enough military-grade firepower to overthrow a small country.
"The perimeter is secured, Donna Isabella," Dante reported, his eyes scanning the docks. "But as expected, the Romanos aren't taking yesterday's announcement lying down."
Right on cue, a convoy of sleek black SUVs rolled through the main gates.
They came to an aggressive halt in the center of the loading bay. Car doors slammed open, and fifty of Lorenzo's top made men poured out, their hands resting menacingly on the holsters beneath thei
