I finished the first draft of my novel and I desperately need unbiased, unknown critiques. I have no idea if what I have written thus far is even good, or if the people I have shared it with are sparing my feelings. Below will be my first chapter, and I will also provide a link to the rest of the story for anyone that wants to do a deep dive of the whole novel for me!

Chapter One

The rain started just after midnight. Not a summer storm. Not cinematic thunder rolling over the harbor. Just cold Boston drizzle turning alleyways slick and silver beneath the moon.

Valentina Lombardi stood on the rusted fire escape overlooking Pier Seven and listened to the city breathe. Container cranes groaned against the skyline like old mechanical beasts. Tugboats churned black water somewhere beyond the fog line. Traffic hissed over wet pavement on the overpass above the harbor district.

Somewhere three blocks south, a siren wailed, then cut off abruptly enough to mean somebody had paid for silence. Boston was good at that. Especially near the docks.

Below her, Lombardi men unloaded black crates from an unmarked eighteen-wheeler backed against Warehouse C. Rain beaded along the truck’s faded paint while men in dark coats moved quickly beneath flickering floodlights.

Nobody lingered at the docks anymore. Not after the crackdowns. Not after the unions started disappearing. Not after the FBI task force began pretending it cared about organized crime again every election cycle.

The harbor belonged to whoever could hold it longest. Tonight, it belonged to the Lombardis. At least, it was supposed to.

Vale rolled the silver ring on her thumb once. Twice. Waiting.

“You keep doing that,” Luca muttered beside her, cigarette glowing orange between his fingers, “I’m gonna think you’re nervous.”

Vale didn’t look at him. “And if I were?”

“I’d check the moon phase.” His grin flashed briefly in the dark.

Luca Lombardi looked too much like trouble to ever survive old age. Pretty in the careless way dangerous men often were. Dark curls damp from rain. Expensive charcoal coat half-buttoned over a bloodstained shirt. Brass rings across scarred fingers. Blood still dried on one knuckle from whatever happened before dinner.

Vale loved him like a brother anyway.

Below them, Benny Caruso shouted something in Italian at the dock crew. “Careful with that crate, idiots! You drop thirty grand into the harbor and Marco’s feeding all of us to the fish.”

One of the younger crewmen laughed nervously. Another crossed himself. Valentina’s gaze drifted over the operation automatically. Three trucks. Two perimeter lookouts. One sniper positioned on the grain silo rooftop across the water.

Lombardi territory indicators hidden in plain sight, yellow chalk stripe near the loading bay, saint medallions nailed beneath dock posts, coded shipping tags marking protected inventory. To humans, the harbor looked normal. To wolves, it looked alive.

Every inch of Boston carried a territorial scent beneath the co…

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