Chapter 4 - The Shadows Outside the Window
The silence that followed was heavier than the ocean.
Dominic stood motionless, the fabric of his overcoat absorbing Sadi’s trembling breath. His mind, trained for decades in the brutal calculus of survival, shifted gears with the cold precision of a guillotine.
*Paulie.*
Paulie had been by his side for a decade. Paulie was the one who had handled the logistical mop-up after Sadi’s car went over the bridge. Paulie was the one who had brought Dominic the diver's report, who had patted his shoulder at the empty grave, who had urged him to burn the Moretti family to ash. And right now, Paulie was standing ten feet away, guarding the corridor of this decrepit motel.
“Dom,” Sadi whispered, sensing the terrifying shift in his posture. “He’s outside, isn't he?”
“Don't move,” Dominic commanded softly.
He reached down, scooped his Colt .45 off the floor, and checked the chamber. Eight rounds. He adjusted his suit jacket, masking the weapon beneath the dark wool. His eyes swept over Sadi. She was frail, shaking, and completely running on adrenaline.
“Frankie took the money to buy a tracker,” Sadi said frantically, grabbing his sleeve. “Paulie was demanding fifty grand from Frankie to keep quiet about Mia's location. Frankie realized Paulie wasn't going to let either of us live. He was going to use Mia as leverage to force you to step down, Dom! Frankie tried to get the money to pay off an informant to get her back before Paulie moved her!”
“Where is Frankie now?” Dominic asked, his voice dead and even.
“I don't know!” she gasped. “He was supposed to meet me here an hour ago! He had the address where Paulie is keeping Mia!”
Suddenly, the shattered window blinds rattled.
Down in the rain-soaked alleyway behind the motel, twin beams of high-intensity halogen headlights cut through the pink neon haze. A heavy diesel engine rumbled, idling with a low, menacing growl. Dominic stepped to the edge of the window, using two fingers to part the cracked plastic slats just enough to peer down.
Two black Suburbans had just rolled into the rear alley, blocking the fire escape exit. Men in dark tactical raincoats were stepping out, unzipping canvas duffel bags, pulling out short-barreled suppressed submachine guns.
These weren't street thugs. These were professional clean-up crews.
And they weren't wearing Russo colors. They were Don Lucian’s personal hitters—the Sicilian syndicate from the north docks that Paulie had supposedly been negotiating peace treaties with for the last six months.
“We’ve been set up,” Dominic said quietly.
Through the crack in the ruined doorway behind them, the heavy thud of footsteps echoed down the carpeted hallway. Dominic turned slowly.
Ray’s voice drifted through the gap, sounding strained and tight. “Boss? We got a problem downstairs. Paulie walked down to check the perimeter and he hasn't checked back in. Boss, you need to open up!”
Dominic didn't answer. He stepped toward the door, his eyes locking onto Sadi. He pointed to the bathroom. “Inside the tub. Now. Lie flat.”
“Dominic—”
“If you want to see our daughter alive, you get in that goddamn tub and you stay down!” he hissed with a fury so absolute that she instinctively obeyed, scrambling into the rusted porcelain basin and pulling the filthy shower curtain closed.
Dominic approached the shattered door. Through the three-inch gap where the frame was broken, he could see Ray standing under the flickering fluorescent bulb. Ray was holding his Glock, his back to the door, scanning the stairwell. Ray was a blunt instrument, dumb as a brick, but loyal to the coin. He wasn't in on it. Which meant Ray was already a dead man walking.
Suddenly, the stairwell door at the end of the hall flew open with a violent crash.
A heavy volley of suppressed gunfire erupted—*thwip-thwip-thwip-thwip!*
Ray didn't even have time to scream. Four 9mm rounds punched through his broad back, blowing out his chest in geysers of arterial mist. He crashed face-first onto the wet carpet, his weapon skittering away into the puddle of gray water the janitor had left behind.
“Clear the hall! Room 307! Don't let Russo leave the room!” a voice barked from the stairwell. It was Paulie’s voice, harsh and commanding.
Dominic didn't flinch. He didn't drop to his knees. The king of the city reached into his jacket, pulled a spare magazine from his vest pocket, and wedged it between his teeth.
May you like
Then he raised his Colt and fired three blind shots straight through the hollow wooden door.
***
