Elena Vitiello POV:
The rain muffled the sound of our boots as we moved like shadows through the maze of rusted shipping containers.
I raised my hand, flashing two fingers forward. My strike team fanned out. Four muffled *thwips* from suppressed submachine guns sounded in the dark. The four perimeter guards dropped into the mud without making a sound.
"Power and comms are cut," the squad leader whispered in my earpiece.
We advanced to the center clearing of the pier. Under the harsh glare of a single battery-powered floodlight, fifteen men in heavy raincoats were shouting in Spanish, directing a massive crane. They were frantically trying to load three heavily rusted shipping containers onto a waiting cargo freighter. They knew the Outfit was purging the city, and they were trying to run.
I raised my pistol, aimed at the crane's glass cab, and fired.
The glass shattered. The operator screamed, taking the bullet in the shoulder, and tumbled out of the cab. The crane’s gears ground with a horrific screech, and the suspended container slammed onto the concrete dock with a deafening crash.
The floodlight swung around, illuminating me as I stepped out from the shadows. My strike team poured in from every angle, their laser sights painting the traffickers’ chests with dozens of red dots.
The cartel boss panicked. He grabbed a frail, soaking wet girl who had just been dragged out of a side container and yanked her against his chest, pressing the barrel of his Glock to her temple.
"Back off!" he screamed, his eyes rolling with terror. "I'll blow her brains out!"
I didn't stop walking. I didn't even slow my pace. My black trench coat whipped in the wind as I closed the distance between us.
"You're shaking," I said, my voice cutting through the rain like a razor.
The boss blinked, thrown off by my absolute lack of hesitation. "I swear to God, I'll do it!"
"Your grip is too low on the backstrap," I mocked, stopping ten feet away. "You don't even know how to hold a gun. You don't belong in my city."
Rage and humiliation flashed across his face. For a fraction of a second, his focus shifted from the girl to me.
I raised my gun and fired.
The bullet sliced through the rain and shattered his wrist. The boss shrieked, his hand disintegrating. The Glock clattered to the wet concrete. The girl collapsed into a puddle, sobbing.
"Down! On the ground!" my men roared, tackling the remaining traffickers into the mud, zip-tying their wrists.
I ignored them. I walked straight to the massive iron doors of the dropped shipping container. I raised my pistol and smashed the heavy steel grip against the rusted padlock until it broke.
I threw the doors open.
A wave of heat and a smell so foul it made my eyes water poured out. In the pitch-black belly of the container, dozens of women and children were huddled together, shivering, their eyes wide with absolute, primal terror.
My breath caught in my throat. My chest tightened so painfully I thought my ribs would crack. I saw myself in their hollow eyes. I saw the girl who was locked in a room, waiting to be sold to the highest bidder to secure a mafia alliance.
I unbuttoned my heavy trench coat and slipped it off. I walked over to a tiny, trembling girl near the door and draped the warm fabric over her shoulders. "You're safe now," I whispered softly.
The sound of tires crunching on gravel made me turn. Dante’s Rolls Royce had pulled onto the pier. He stepped out, holding a large black umbrella, and walked toward me.
When Dante looked into the container, his jaw locked. The air around him dropped ten degrees. He knew exactly what this triggered in me.
I stood up and walked out into the rain, stopping in front of the bleeding cartel boss kneeling in the mud.
"I can give you accounts!" the boss begged, spitting blood. "Millions in the Cayman Islands! Just let me walk!"
I looked down at him. "Put them in the iron transport cages. Add fifty pounds of steel weights to each cage, and drop them into the deepest part of the Hudson."
The boss screamed in horror. My men grabbed him by his hair and dragged him toward the water's edge, his screams fading into the storm.
Paramedics rushed the pier, wrapping the victims in thermal blankets and leading them to waiting ambulances.
As I stood watching, a cold, bony hand clamped onto the hem of my shirt.
I looked down. A girl, no older than fifteen, stood there. She was covered in mud and bruises, but when I looked at her face, my heart stopped.
Her bone structure, the shape of her jaw, the curve of her nose—she looked exactly like Sofia.
But her eyes were different. Sofia’s eyes were greedy, manipulative, and weak. This girl's eyes were blazing with the feral, untamed intensity of a trapped wolf.
"If I learn to be strong like you," the girl rasped in perfect Italian, her grip tightening on my shirt. "Will they stop treating me like cargo?"
The words hit me like a physical blow. It was the exact question I used to scream in my head when I was trapped in Chicago.
Dante stepped up beside me. He looked at the girl's face, realizing the resemblance immediately. Disgust curled his lip. "Get her away from here," he ordered a guard.
I raised my hand, stopping the guard in his tracks.
I slowly squatted down until I was eye-level with the girl. I reached out and wiped a streak of mud from her cheek.
"What's your name, little wolf?"
