Chapter 4 - Safe Harbor at the Lake
Before the echo of Sal’s warning could fade, the front porch window shattered inward in a shower of glittering glass and splintered wood.
A heavy wooden club smashed through the frame, followed immediately by the beam of a high-powered tactical light sweeping across the hallway.
“Down!” Luca roared.
He moved with blinding, predatory speed. In a single motion, Luca lunged across the foyer, scooped Leo off the staircase stairs with his left arm, and shoved Emma hard toward the floor with his right. Emma hit the hallway runner just as two muffled gunshots tore through the front door, sending jagged splinters flying through the air where Luca had been standing a second earlier.
Leo let out a sharp, terrified shriek, his little arms flailing wildly. “Mommy! Nana!”
“Emma, take him!” Luca shouted, thrusting the screaming toddler into her arms.
Emma didn't think; survival instincts she didn't know she possessed took over. She wrapped both arms tightly around Leo’s small body, pulling him against her chest, shielding his head beneath her heavy wool coat. “I’ve got him! I’ve got him!”
Sal had already drawn a snub-nosed .38 revolver from his driving coat—an old weapon, but maintained with the precision of a master mechanic. He fired two steady shots through the fractured front door panel. Outside, a man cursed violently, followed by the wet thud of a body collapsing into the hydrangeas.
“Back door!” Sal barked. “The alley connects to Racine! My car is out front, but we won't make the street!”
“We don't need the street,” Luca replied. His voice was terrifyingly calm now, the initial shock of the betrayal replaced by the lethal, cold calculation of a mafia Don at war. He drew a custom matte-black semiautomatic from his shoulder holster, racked the slide with a crisp *clack*, and fired three rounds through the front wall at torso height.
Groans and scurrying footsteps echoed from the porch.
“Elena!” Luca snapped, grabbing the sobbing older woman by the scruff of her bathrobe and hauling her to her feet. “Out the back! Run through the alley toward the diner! If you go back to Carmine, you’re dead!”
Elena didn't need to be told twice. She scrambled toward the kitchen, unbolted the rear screen door, and vanished into the stormy darkness like a ghost.
“Emma,” Luca said, turning to her. His eyes found hers in the pitch black. His left hand came up, resting firmly against the nape of her neck for half a second—a gesture so intensely steadying it seemed to stop the room from spinning. “Keep his head down. Follow Sal. If anyone gets between you and the car, you run over them. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” Emma gasped, holding Leo so tightly she could feel the boy’s heart thumping like a trip-hammer against her ribs. “Don't be brave, Leo,” she whispered into the boy’s hair. “Close your eyes. Play the quiet game.”
Remarkably, the child buried his face into the hollow of Emma’s neck, his small fingers bunching the fabric of her uniform collar.
Sal kicked open the side cellar door that led to an attached, narrow garage. Inside sat an ancient, rusted Buick covered in cardboard boxes—a dead end. But Sal didn't head for the car. He kicked open the rotting wooden pedestrian door that led into the side gangway between the houses.
Rain hit Emma like a wall of ice. The freezing downpour plastered her hair to her forehead, soaking through her coat within seconds. She ran through the mud, Sal leading the way with his gun lowered against his thigh, his flashlight beam cutting a bouncing circle through the deluge.
Behind them, the house on West Addison erupted into violence.
Glass shattered. Heavy boots kicked down the front door. Then, the rhythmic, thunderous roar of Luca’s weapon echoed through the hallway—controlled, double-tap bursts that spoke of military training and merciless precision. A scream followed, cut short by another shot.
“Keep moving, Miss Emma!” Sal urged, his breathing labored as he pushed open the rusted latch of the alley gate. “Luca knows how to handle Bellini’s dogs. Keep your eyes on me!”
They burst into the flooded alley. A black sedan with tinted windows was idling sixty yards away, its headlights cutting through the sheets of rain.
Emma’s breath hitched. “Sal! Another one!”
Before Sal could raise his revolver, the driver’s side door of the idling car swung open. A burly man in a soaked trench coat stepped out, holding an umbrella in one hand and a submachine gun pointed at the asphalt in the other.
“Sal! Over here!” the man bellowed over the roar of the wind.
“It’s Mateo!” Sal wheezed, relief flooding his voice. “Luca called the perimeter detail before we left the highway!”
Mateo yanked the rear door open. Sal pushed Emma and the boy into the leather interior first, tumbling in behind them just as the gate at the end of the alley splintered apart.
Luca burst through the wreckage. His bespoke suit jacket was torn at the shoulder, dark with rain and blood that Emma prayed wasn't his own. He sprinted through the mud with the speed of an athlete half his age, dived into the rear seat beside Emma, and slammed the heavy door shut.
“Move!” Luca roared.
Mateo hit the gas. The heavy armored Suburban lurched forward, its tires biting through the alley mud and rocketing out onto Racine Avenue just as muzzle flashes lit up the dark behind them, bullets pinging harmlessly off the reinforced ballistic glass of the tailgate.
Leo was sobbing now, great, shuddering gasps that shook his entire frame. “I want to go home! I lost my bear! Nana!”
Emma shifted the boy in her lap, completely disregarding the mud and rainwater dripping from her own clothes. She rocked him, her chin resting on his wet curls, speaking in a low, melodic rhythm she remembered from taking care of her younger brother years ago.
“You’re safe, Leo,” she crooned, stroking his back with long, steady strokes. “You’re okay. The loud noises are gone. Look at me, sweetheart. Look at Emma.”
Leo slowly pulled his face away from her collar, his dark eyes brimming with huge, glassy tears. “The loud men broke the door.”
“I know,” Emma whispered, wiping a smear of soot and rain from his cheek with her thumb. “But this man here,” she glanced up at Luca, whose chest was heaving as he reloaded his magazine with steady, mechanical clicks, “this man is your uncle. He’s the strongest man in the whole city. Nobody is going to hurt you while he’s here.”
Leo sniffled, turning his head to look at Luca.
Luca’s hands paused on the slide of his weapon. In the dim, green ambient light of the Suburban’s dashboard, the mafia boss looked down at his nephew.
Slowly, carefully, Luca reached out. His large, scarred hand—a hand that had just taken two lives to clear their escape—gently smoothed down the damp hair sticking to the boy’s forehead.
“I’m Julian’s brother,” Luca said, his voice thick with an emotion he couldn't quite master. “I’ve got you, Leo. You’re going to a real home now.”
Leo looked at him for a long moment, then reached out his tiny, mitten-covered hand and gripped Luca’s thumb.
May you like
Luca closed his eyes, his head dropping back against the leather headrest, a single, silent tear carving a clean path through the grime on his cheek.
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