Chapter 53
The western rail yards were a desolate expanse of rusted steel and towering cargo containers. The midnight air was freezing, illuminated only by the harsh, cinematic glare of tactical floodlights. Domenico Falcone stepped out of his armored SUV, his polished leather shoes making no sound against the gravel. He wore a long, dark overcoat over his tailored suit, blending seamlessly into the shadows like a hunting panther. A contingent of heavily armed Morello mercenaries stood near the train cars, their weapons lowered but visible. At their center was a lieutenant with an arrogant, flushed face. "Falcone!" the lieutenant shouted, his voice echoing gratingly in the quiet yard. "We are just passing through. The West Coast is expanding." Domenico did not flinch. He walked slowly toward the men, his deeply masculine, terrifying presence suffocating the air. "You do not expand. Into my territory," Domenico whispered softly, stopping ten feet away. "Turn the trains around." The lieutenant sneered, raising his hand to signal his shooters. "You don't own the whole country, Domenico." Before the man could lower his hand, Domenico drew his matte-black, suppressed sidearm with blinding, explosive speed.
