Chapter 4 - Behind Closed Doors
The neon sign of the Sea-Breeze Motel buzzed through the torrential downpour, casting blood-red reflections across oil-stained puddles.
I arrived in my unmarked Mercedes four minutes later, tires screeching against the cracked asphalt. Rain lashed my face as I stepped out, drawing the suppressed Beretta from beneath my coat. The night air was thick with the ozone smell of scorched transformers and sea brine.
Dominic’s Escalade was parked crookedly in front of Room 14. The driver’s side door hung open, the interior dome light illuminating empty seats.
I moved along the concrete breezeway, my boots making zero sound against the wet cement. The window of Room 14 was shattered from the inside out; safety glass lay scattered across the wet walkway like crushed diamonds.
I kicked the wooden door open, sweeping the muzzle across the room.
“Clear!” I snarled under my breath, my tactical training overriding raw emotion.
The motel room was a war zone.
A cheap particle-board table was splintered in half. Bullet holes pockmarked the drywall at torso level. But on the linoleum floor near the bathroom lay one of Dominic’s handpicked enforcers—a hulking muscle-bound thug named Carl. His throat had been crushed with what looked like an iron pipe, and his sidearm was missing.
From behind the shower curtain, a silhouette moved with terrifying speed.
A glock barrel pressed firmly against the base of my skull before I could pivot.
“Drop it, Mr. Rossi,” Clara’s voice hissed in my ear. It was cold, devoid of panic, perfectly metered. “Drop the Beretta on the bed, or your son becomes an orphan tonight.”
I slowly lowered my weapon, placing it on the stained bedspread, and raised both hands.
“I’m not here to hurt you, Captain Vance,” I said evenly.
The pressure of the muzzle did not ease, but I felt her shift her stance. “You ran my file.”
“I ran your file. And I know Dominic sent these men to silence you.” I slowly turned my head, keeping my hands visible.
She stood in the dim light, blood running down her left temple from a graze, her knuckles raw and bloody. She wore black cargo pants and a wet thermal shirt. In her hands, she held Carl’s Glock 17, leveled squarely at the center of my chest.
“Your security chief is a snake,” Clara said, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper. “He’s the one who rigged your car. Matteo saw him under the chassis the morning of the hit. Dominic threatened to break his neck if he ever made a sound. That’s why the kid stopped talking, Rossi. He didn't lose his voice from trauma. He’s protecting *you*.”
The revelation knocked the air straight out of my lungs.
Matteo hadn't gone mute from shock.
My eight-year-old boy had endured fourteen months of agonizing silence, physical immobility, and terrifying loneliness, believing that if he made a single sound, his monster of a caretaker would execute his father. He was suffering in silence to keep *me* alive.
Tears of pure, unadulterated fury burned behind my eyes.
“Where is Dominic now?” I asked, my voice deadly quiet.
May you like
“He didn't come to the room,” Clara said, lowering the weapon slightly as she realized I wasn't her enemy. “Carl was supposed to execute me and leave a suicide note. Dominic went back to your estate. He knows you’re vulnerable. He’s taking your vaults tonight.”
***
