Chapter 4 - The Price of Blood
The gunshot cracked through the torrential downpour.
Vincent collapsed with a sickening shriek, skidding face-first through the mud and wet grass. The white teddy bear tumbled from his grasp, landing in a puddle inches from his bleeding leg.
Before Falcone’s mercenaries could pivot their headlights toward the muzzle flash, I moved with predatory speed. I scooped the soaked toy from the mud, slung Vincent over my shoulder by his soaking wet jacket, and dragged him backward into the shadow of the brick garden wall.
Marco was already up, his suppressed rifle spitting two precise rounds into the driver and spotter of the nearest SUV. The vehicle lurched forward into a stone balustrade, horn blaring continuously into the stormy night.
“Move! Back gate!” Marco hissed, reloading on the fly.
We threw ourselves into an unmarked, armored sedan parked inside the groundskeeper’s shed—a contingency vehicle I kept prepped for worst-case scenarios. I strapped Lily into the emergency car seat in the rear, her little body trembling like an autumn leaf. Her tiny hands clutched the muddy teddy bear to her chest, her teardrops mingling with the rain running down her pale cheeks.
“Dada hurt Uncle Vinnie?” she whispered, her voice cracking with pure confusion. “Bad man?”
I leaned over the seat, cupping her cold, wet cheek in my palm. “Uncle Vinnie made a mistake, baby. Dada is taking care of it. Close your eyes. Count the stars in your head, okay?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, her tiny lips moving silently: “One... two... fee...”
I slammed the driver’s door, fired the reinforced engine, and flattened the gas pedal. The armored sedan roared to life, smashing directly through the wooden shed doors and hurtling through the side iron gate into the winding, rain-slicked roads of Long Island.
In the passenger seat, Vincent was weeping, his hands clasped over his shattered knee.
“You're insane, Alex,” he groaned through chattering teeth. “He’ll never stop. Carmine owns the judges, the docks, the port authority... he owns Falcone! Falcone is just his attack dog!”
“Shut up,” I snarled, checking the rearview mirror. Two pairs of high-beam headlights appeared around the hairpin turn behind us, closing fast. “Marco, tear the bear apart. Find the hardware.”
“Boss?” Marco looked back from the rear seat, hesitating. “Miss Elena made that bear with her own hands for Lily.”
“Tear it open.”
Marco pulled a tactical blade from his boot. He gently eased the toy from Lily’s sleeping grasp—exhaustion had finally claimed her amid the engine’s drone—and carefully sliced the seam along the bear’s back.
Inside the synthetic cotton stuffing, nestled near the voice box, sat a micro-satellite drive encased in black titanium. Attached to it with clear electrical tape was a tiny handwritten note in Elena’s elegant, unmistakable cursive.
Marco picked up the note, squinting under the dim map light. His face hardened, every muscle in his neck turning to granite.
“Boss...” Marco’s voice dropped to a hollow whisper. “You need to pull over.”
“We have two chase vehicles on our tail, Marco. Read the damn note!”
“Alexander,” Marco said, his voice shaking—something I had never heard in nine years of war beside him. “The note isn't about Carmine.”
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Behind us, a deafening crunch rocked the sedan. The lead chase vehicle had pit-maneuvered our rear quarter panel, sending the car into a violent, sideways skid across the slick asphalt.
I wrestled the steering wheel, fighting the momentum, tires screaming against wet tarmac as we spun toward the edge of the coastal cliff.
