Our black SUV slid silently to a halt fifty yards from the main pier. Through the windshield, I could see a sleek white yacht rocking gently against the tide, its engine idling with a low, throaty hum.

Marcus stood near the gangplank, looking frantic, disheveled, and completely unraveled. The polished, effortless charm he wore like armor at the Harrington Gala was completely gone, replaced by the panicked desperation of a cornered animal.

Damiano killed the engine, turning to look at me in the dim light of the cabin.

“Stay in the car,” he instructed, reaching for the door handle.

“No,” I said firmly, my hand shooting out to grip his sleeve.

Damiano paused, looking down at my hand. “Arya, it’s going to get ugly out there. You don’t need to see this.”

“I watched him destroy eight months of my life,” I said, my voice trembling slightly but carrying absolute steel. “I need to see the end of it. With my own eyes.”

For a second, Damiano studied my face. Then, with a slow nod, he pushed his door open. “Stay right behind me.”

We stepped out into the damp, salt-air chill of the coast. The crunch of our boots on the gravel sounded like gunshots in the quiet night.

Marcus heard us approaching. He spun around, his eyes wide and bloodshot, his hands trembling as he pulled a heavy chrome pistol from his coat pocket and pointed it straight at us.

“Stay back!” Marcus screamed, his voice cracking with hysteria. “Don’t take another step, or I swear to God I’ll put a bullet through her!”

Damiano didn't flinch. He didn't even slow his pace. He stepped smoothly in front of me, shielding my body with his broad shoulders, his hands completely empty and relaxed at his sides.

“You’re pointing a gun at the wrong person, Marcus,” Damiano said, his voice cutting through the wind like a razor.

“Shut up! Shut up!” Marcus shrieked, tears of rage and humiliation spilling down his cheeks. “She ruined everything! My business, my money, my life! She belongs to me! She was supposed to stay quiet!”

“She never belonged to you,” Damiano replied coldly, taking another measured step forward. “And your business didn't fail because of her. It failed because you are a coward who built an empire on intimidation and learned too late that real power doesn't punch down—it crushes men like you.”

“I’ll kill her! I swear I’ll—!” Marcus raised the pistol higher, his finger twitching on the trigger.

He never got the chance.

From the shadows of the rusted shipping containers lining the pier, a soft thwip echoed through the fog. A high-velocity rubber kinetic round struck Marcus’s wrist with bone-shattering force.

With a cry of agony, Marcus dropped the pistol. It clattered loudly against the wooden planks of the dock.

Before Marcus could even scream, three of Damiano’s operatives materialized out of the fog, tackling him to the ground, pinning his face against the damp wood and slapping steel cuffs around his wrists with ruthless efficiency.

Marcus thrashed and sobbed, his voice fading into pathetic whimpers as they hauled him up and dragged him toward a waiting black van at the edge of the pier.

The marina fell silent once more, save for the rhythmic crashing of the waves.