Chapter 6 - The Glass Fortress
The descent through the industrial galvanized chute was a bone-jarring plunge into complete darkness. Dominic went first, hitting the mountain of mildewed hotel towels with a heavy grunt, his Colt raised before he even found his footing. Sadi landed seconds later, followed by Silvio, whose weathered frame seemed surprisingly resilient against the impact.
They moved through the subterranean steam tunnels beneath the city like phantoms. Dominic led the way, his pristine three-thousand-dollar suit now shredded, stained with soot, plaster, and other men's blood. Behind them, the muffled crumps of flashbang grenades echoed through the motel's foundation above. Paulie’s men were tearing Room 307 apart, realizing too late that the king had slipped through their fingers.
Twenty minutes later, they emerged from an access grate into the grease-slicked alley behind a closed seafood wholesale plant on the edge of the financial district.
Sitting in the shadows beside a rusted dumpster was Dominic’s secondary contingency vehicle—an armored, blacked-out Range Rover he kept stashed for extraction scenarios he had prayed he would never need. Dominic keyed the remote ignition. The engine purred to life with a quiet, lethal hum.
“Get in,” Dominic ordered.
Silvio climbed into the rear, resting his shotgun across his lap, while Sadi slid into the passenger seat. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably now that the adrenaline was beginning to ebb. Dominic climbed behind the wheel, slammed the door, and engaged the central locking system.
He pulled his encrypted satellite phone from the center console, punched a six-digit code, and brought it to his ear.
“Marco,” Dominic said the second the call connected.
A rough voice answered instantly. “Boss? Where the hell are you? Paulie called an emergency council meeting at the high docks twenty minutes ago. He claims you were ambushed by the Moretti remnants at the St. Jude. He claims you’re dead.”
“I’m breathing,” Dominic said, his tone chillingly level. “Lock down the Glass Fortress. Every camera, every automated gate. Arm the outer perimeter. If anyone approaches without my direct voice clearance, shoot them through the windshield. We arrive in six minutes.”
Dominic hung up, tossed the phone onto the dash, and floored the accelerator. The heavy SUV launched forward, tires tearing through the rain-soaked asphalt as they tore toward the waterfront.
The Glass Fortress was what the syndicate called Dominic’s private estate—a monolithic, three-story compound of reinforced concrete and blast-proof ballistic glass perched high on the cliffs overlooking the harbor. It was designed to withstand a military siege.
When the heavy steel security gates rolled open and the Rover tore up the winding driveway, a dozen heavily armed guards in tactical gear snapped to attention. Dominic killed the engine inside the subterranean garage.
The moment they stepped out, Marco—Dominic’s head of private security, a scarred veteran with cold eyes—rushed forward, stopping dead in his tracks the second he saw Sadi.
Marco’s gun dipped. His mouth dropped open. “Mrs... Mrs. Russo?”
“Don't ask questions, Marco,” Dominic snapped, stripping off his ruined overcoat and tossing it to the floor. “Bring the medical kit to the library. Get Silvio a bottle of bourbon and clean clothes. And bring me the surveillance feeds from Paulie’s private warehouse on Pier 42.”
“Boss,” Marco stammered, his eyes still darting toward Sadi as if she were an apparition. “Paulie... Paulie isn't at Pier 42. He just checked in from Don Lucian’s yacht. The *Siren*. It’s anchored half a mile off the coast, just outside municipal waters.”
Sadi grabbed Dominic’s arm, her fingernails biting through his dress shirt. “That’s where Mia is. They put her on the boat. If they cross into international waters, Dominic, we’ll never find her. She’ll disappear into Europe!”
Dominic turned to Marco, his eyes burning with an unholy fire. “Is the harbor boat fueled?”
“The cigarette boat is ready, Boss,” Marco said. “Twin turbocharged engines. It can hit seventy knots in open water. But Don Lucian’s yacht is a fortress. He’s got forty mercenaries on that deck. It’s suicide.”
Dominic walked over to the gun rack mounted on the garage wall. He pulled down an M4 carbine, slammed a thirty-round magazine into the well, and pulled the charging handle with a sharp, brutal clack.
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“They have my daughter,” Dominic said softly. “They don't know it yet, but they’re already dead.”
***
