Chapter 8 - A Father's Wrath
Within fifteen minutes of the abduction, the entire eastern seaboard’s underworld was plunged into a state of total, paralyzed martial law.
Every warehouse, every illegal gambling parlor, and every dockside front company tied to Marco Bellini was systematically raided by Vincent’s heavy assault squads.
In an abandoned industrial warehouse near the rail yards, Vincent walked into a dimly lit basement where Marco’s chief logistics broker was tied to a steel chair.
The broker was bleeding from a broken nose, sobbing hysterically as Leo adjusted a high-voltage battery cable.
Vincent didn't ask questions; he simply laid Lily’s blood-stained plush bunny onto the metal table in front of the terrified man.
"You have thirty seconds to give me the docking coordinates of Marco’s vessel," Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
"I...
I don't know the exact berth, I swear to God!" the broker wailed, thrashing against his ropes.
"Marco planned this with an offshore cartel syndicate!
He said if Vincent discovered the truth, he would execute the woman and sell the child to an overseas network!"
Vincent’s expression didn't change, but his hand moved with terrifying precision, driving a combat blade through the table inches from the man's fingers.
"Twenty seconds."
"Pier 19! Pier 19 at Harbor Point!" the broker shrieked, collapsing into tears of pure terror.
"The vessel is named The Leviathan! It’s an old naval supply ship modified with heavy armor and machine gun nests on the upper deck!
Marco has fifty mercenary contractors guarding the perimeter!"
Vincent turned on his heel, walking toward the exit without sparing the man another glance.
"Burn this warehouse to the ground," Vincent ordered Leo as he stepped into his armored SUV.
"And prep the airborne strike package.
We hit Harbor Point at full combat speed."
Outside, three black Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters, stripped of civilian markings and outfitted with heavy door-mounted miniguns, touched down on the private airfield.
One hundred of Vincent’s most elite, battle-tested operators boarded the aircraft in silent, lethal discipline.
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Vincent climbed into the lead helicopter, strapping on a tactical plate carrier over his dress shirt, checking the optical sight on his customized M4 carbine.
Looking down at the sprawling city lights below, Vincent knew that tonight, the blood-soaked history of the Castiglione family would end—or be reborn in fire.
