Seven: Snake Pit

Seven: Snake Pit

Dominic POV

The engine’s low growl faded as I eased the SUV into the overgrown lot, the warehouse’s silhouette cutting against the pre-dawn haze like a scar on the skyline. My knuckles ached from gripping the wheel too tight during the drive. Every mile marker was a reminder of the noose Zacian was tightening around my neck. I’d been feeling his pressure for months now. And tonight? He had his sights on my daughter. I knew exactly why. It wasn't random. He wasn't interested in her heart. He was looking for leverage. He wanted to use her to get to me, to force my hand when nothing else would. By targeting her, he wasn't just threatening my legacy; he was sending a warning. He was going for my throat by going for her.

Henderson’s glittering façade was miles behind now, replaced by this forsaken stretch of industrial decay. Fremont’s underbelly, where Alex’s operations festered like an open wound. I’d gone dark, driving solo with no tail and no entourage to ensure I wasn’t followed. It was a risk, but right now, trust was a luxury I couldn’t afford, even though I knew isolation bred its own vulnerabilities.

Piper’s message had been a jagged pill to swallow, veiled threats wrapped in concern for Cecilia, the one thread that could unravel me completely. I spent the ride replaying the gala in my head, her radiant smile under the chandeliers, oblivious to the predators circling. Zacian’s hand on her waist during that damned waltz, his eyes locking onto mine like a challenge. I’d pulled her away before he could touch her a second time, but the damage lingered. It was a seed of doubt burrowing deep. Was he probing for weakness? Or marking her as a prize? Piper and Alex knew how to twist the knife. They’d been needling me for months with whispers of alliance, but dragging my daughter into this? That crossed into blood territory.

I killed the lights and scanned the perimeter. Chain-link fence sagging under rust, a lone sodium lamp buzzing overhead. No overt sentries, but Alex’s crew didn’t advertise. I tucked the burner phone into my pocket, checked the clip of my Sig Sauer for the third time, and holstered it against my ribs. The air carried the tang of stale rain and diesel, a far cry from the mansion’s polished oak and fresh linens. My shoes crunched over shattered glass as I approached the side door, rapping twice in the prearranged code.

It swung open, revealing a hulking figure in shadows. One of Alex’s old-timers, face like weathered leather. He nodded once, jerking his head inside. “They’re waiting. No phones, no surprises.”

I followed him through a maze of stacked crates and flickering fluorescents, the space echoing with the drip of unseen leaks. My mind churned: the trucking routes I’d built from nothing, now strangled by Zacian’s decrees. Last month’s haul from Phoenix? Diverted at the state line, ‘inspected’ until the cargo spoiled. Profits? A trickle, barely covering fuel for the rigs.

To stay afloat, I’d branched out. I ran underground fight clubs in abandoned lots off the Strip, where bets flowed like blood from busted knuckles. I set up online betting rings through dark web proxies, pulling in desperate gamblers from coast to coast. I even siphoned casino profits via encrypted apps, skimming slivers from high-rollers’ tables without tripping alarms. And the illegal gambling dens tucked into Henderson basements, with poker tables and dice games drawing the lowlifes who’d pay a premium for discretion. These side hustles patched the holes, but they were bandages on a gaping wound. Risky, volatile, always one raid away from collapse.

The men grumbled in the break rooms, eyes darting when I promised payouts. I’d sold off two semis last week, cash funneled straight to Cecilia’s scholarship fund. Stanford applications didn’t write themselves, and her passion for those orphan programs? It was the one pure thing left in this cesspool. But every donation chipped at the foundation. House payments lagged, my son’s crew demanding hazard pay for riskier runs. Securing new clients felt like shouting into a void. Old ones ghosted calls, lured by Zacian’s ironclad guarantees.

The fight clubs brought quick cash, but enforcers needed greasing. The betting rings required constant server hops to dodge feds. The casino siphons ate into tech upgrades. The dens meant bribing local badges. It was a house of cards, all propped up by the trucking core now crumbling under pressure.

We emerged into a cleared area, ringed by metal beams and tarps. Piper stood at the far end, arms crossed, her tailored pantsuit screaming calculated poise amid the grit. Alex lounged against a workbench, nursing a flask, his broad frame casting long shadows. A scarred wooden table separated them, laden with a map, notepads, and a half-empty bottle of something amber.

“Dominic,” Piper greeted, her tone clipped, professional. She didn’t offer a hand. Neither did I. “You look like hell. Rough night?”

“Spare me the therapy,” I shot back, positioning myself with the exit in sight. “You drag me out here with talk of my daughter. Spill it, or I’m gone.”

Alex straightened, capping his flask with a metallic click. “Easy, Dom. We’re not the enemy. Sit. Pour yourself something. It’s the good stuff, not that watered-down swill Zacian peddles.”

I ignored the chair, leaning on the table’s edge instead. Proximity was power, or at least the illusion. “Cecilia. Now.”

Piper’s eyes narrowed, appraising. She tapped the map, unfolding it to reveal marked routes snaking through the valley. “Zacian’s got her in his sights. Not a crush, not business—leverage. Our informants caught his people tailing her drives to that eastside shelter. Photos, schedules. He’s building a profile, testing if she knows about your… side gigs.”

A chill coiled in my gut, colder than the draft snaking through the vents. Cecilia, my dewdrop, splashing paint at that community center, dreaming of Stanford scholarships and clean slates. The thought of Zacian’s shadows creeping even deeper into her world twisted something raw inside me, but I schooled my face to stone. They’d baited the hook. Now came the pull.

Piper circled the table, her heels echoing sharply. "Small plays get you buried, Dominic. Remember the ninety-five shakeout? Your old man clawed back from worse. Zacian’s modernizing us out of existence, using drones on borders and blockchain for tracks. We hit his ports first. Your trucks lead the diversion, backed by your gambling networks to launder the funds clean. Alex’s muscle secures the ground. My properties host the fallback dens. Rodney’s itching for a fight, since the gangs in North Vegas hate the king’s cut on their dope and dice. Ryker’s loyal, but crack the facade, show Zacian vulnerable, and fractures form. You’re the bridge, Dom. Without you, we’re silos. With you, we thrive."

Her words hung in the stale air, laced with the promise of upheaval, but I could taste the desperation beneath. It was like overripe fruit on the verge of rot. The map sprawled before us, lines crisscrossing like veins pulsing with false hope. I straightened, letting a wry chuckle escape. It was light as morning fog, though it masked the storm brewing in my chest. Family first, always. Miloetta’s mantra, etched into my bones. But allying with these fractured souls? It would drag Cecilia deeper into the abyss, not shield her.

“Thrive,” I echoed, my voice low as I tasted the irony. “Sounds poetic, Piper. But let’s not kid ourselves. The last time we thrived against a kingpin, bodies piled up from here to the Strip. And who cleaned the mess? Not Zacian. He just rebuilt on our graves. My trucks? They’re barely keeping Henderson afloat, not fueling some grand rebellion. And Cecilia, if he’s watching her, it’s because he smells weakness in me, not an invitation to war.”

Alex shifted, his flask forgotten, jaw tightening. I met his gaze, steady. The weight of unspoken histories pressed down on us, the old pacts frayed by greed and the laughs we’d shared over bad whiskey now soured by suspicion.

“You want a bridge? Build your own. I’m fortifying my walls, keeping my girl clear of this snake pit. Zacian’s a devil we all know. Stirring the pot just invites the whole inferno.”

My mind raced ahead, calculating risks. I needed to bolster the guards around the house, reroute the shipments through quieter channels, and buy time with a smile and a bluff at the next sit-down. No grand gestures, no suicidal charges. Just survival, one calculated breath at a time.

Piper’s lips curved, not quite a smile, more a predator’s assessment. The warehouse seemed to close in, the hum of distant traffic a mocking reminder of the empire slipping through fingers. But I wouldn’t bend. Not yet, not when the cost was her light dimming in the dark.