I stood at the edge of the docks, the familiar scent of saltwater and diesel heavy in the air. The hum of activity surrounded me—men shouting, cranes creaking as they lifted containers, the distant sound of ships’ horns. This place, with its controlled chaos, had always been a symbol of my power, my reach. But tonight, that control felt precarious.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, a vibration that seemed to rattle my nerves. Glancing at the screen, I saw the name: Detective Harrison. The timing couldn't be a coincidence. I answered with a terse, “Harrison.”
“Marshall,” he greeted, his voice thick with tension. “We’ve got a problem.”
My grip on the phone tightened. “What kind of problem?”
“Nico’s flipped,” Harrison said bluntly. “He’s met with the Feds—him, Luca, and a few of his top guys.
