Chapter 6 - The Turn of the Tide“Do it, Bennett!” Clara shouted suddenly, her voice cutting through the howling sea wind without a single tremor of fear. “Don't let him win!”
Sterling cursed, pressing the gun harder against her temple. “Shut up, you little bitch!”
Eleanor, sitting helpless in her wheelchair, suddenly lunged forward with surprising strength. She threw her weight against the back of the second thug’s knees, catching the armed guard completely off guard.
The thug stumbled backward, tumbling over the low safety barrier of the catwalk with a terrified shriek, plunging into the dark water below with a heavy splash.
Distracted for a split second by the commotion, Sterling’s grip on Clara loosened.
That split second was all Bennett needed.
Bang.
The gunshot echoed across the harbor like thunder.
Sterling’s pistol flew from his hand as a bullet shattered his wrist. He screamed, clutching his bloody hand and stumbling backward against the steel railing.
Before Sterling could recover, the screech of tires echoed across the asphalt behind the dry docks. A fleet of black SUVs tore through the rusted gates, their high beams blindingly bright, flooding the pier with light. Marcus Vance and a dozen heavily armed Hale enforcers poured out of the vehicles, weapons raised, securing the perimeter in seconds.
“Secure the area!” Marcus roared, leading his men up the exterior metal staircase toward the crane tower.
Bennett didn't wait for his men. He holstered his gun and sprinted toward the ladder, scaling the rusted iron rungs three at a time with desperate urgency.
When he reached the catwalk, Sterling was bleeding on the grating, groaning in agony as Marcus’s men pinned him to the ground.
Bennett ignored him entirely. He rushed past them, dropping to his knees beside Clara.
With trembling fingers, Bennett sliced through the plastic zip-ties binding her wrists with a pocketknife. He pulled her hands free, gently gripping her wrists where red friction burns had formed.
“Are you hurt?” Bennett asked, his voice uncharacteristically rough, his eyes searching her face with raw desperation.
Clara looked up at him, tears finally spilling over her lashes, but she was smiling. “I’m okay. I’m okay, Bennett.”
Bennett pulled her into his arms, burying his face against her shoulder in a tight, protective embrace. For a few seconds, nothing else in the world existed—not the syndicate wars, not the blood on the concrete, not even the empire he had fought so hard to protect.
“Boss,” Marcus called out cautiously, stepping over to them. “We’ve secured Sterling and his men. What do we do with them?”
Bennett slowly pulled back from Clara, keeping one hand gently resting on her arm. He stood up, towering over the groaning form of Viktor Sterling. The cold, ruthless mafia boss returned to his eyes, but this time, there was a terrifying, absolute finality to his demeanor.
“Ship Sterling and his lieutenants to the deep-water cargo vessels,” Bennett said quietly, his voice like grinding ice. “Send them to the reclamation camps in South America. I never want to see their faces in this city again.”
“Consider it done,” Marcus nodded, signaling the enforcers to drag the prisoners away.
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Bennett turned back to his mother, who was sitting quietly in her wheelchair, watching him with a proud, serene expression. He knelt beside her, taking her frail hand in his.
“Let’s take you home, Mother,” Bennett said softly.
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