Chapter 7 - Ambush at Harbor Walk
The front door didn't just splinter—it blew inward off its hinges with the force of a hydraulic breaching ram.
A tall man in tactical gear and a black balaclava swung into the doorway, an automatic shotgun leveled at waist height.
Before his eyes could adjust to the dim light of the hallway, I stepped out from the blind spot behind the door frame. I brought the barrel of the Sig Sauer down on the bridge of his nose with brutal, bone-cracking force, grabbed the barrel of his shotgun, and twisted it out of his hands.
A second man rushed through the frame.
I fired twice into his center mass. The heavy 9mm rounds hit his Kevlar vest with the sound of a sledgehammer hitting wet concrete, knocking him backward down the stairwell into the third man behind him.
Shouts in Italian and English echoed up the stairs.
"Moretti’s inside! Take him down! Don't let the woman leave!"
From outside the street-facing window, a burst of automatic gunfire tore through the glass. Shards of glass and brick dust exploded across the small living room. The corduroy couch was shredded into flying cotton.
From the bathroom, I heard Elena scream, followed by the muffled, terrifying wails of four little boys.
That sound snapped the last tether of my restraint.
I dropped the empty magazine from my handgun, slapped a fresh one home, and stepped directly into the hallway.
The two surviving men on the landing raised their weapons. I fired three rapid, precision shots through the wooden banister. One collapsed instantly; the second dropped his weapon and fell down the remaining stairs, clutching his shattered shoulder.
"Clear!" Dante roared from the bottom of the stairwell, his rifle raised as he stepped over the fallen bodies. "Dominic! We have thirty seconds before the Boston PD perimeter closes! We have to move now!"
I turned and kicked the bathroom door open.
Elena was lying across the top of the mattress in the bathtub, her body acting as a human shield over the four boys huddled beneath her. Her face was streaked with tears and plaster dust, but her eyes were wild with ferocity.
"It’s over," I said, reaching down and pulling her up. "Get them out. Now."
The boys crawled out from beneath the mattress. None of them were crying anymore. They were trembling, their eyes wide as saucers as they took in the smoke filling the apartment and the weapon in my hand.
Leo was the first on his feet. He looked at the shattered door, then at me.
"Did you get the bad guys?" he asked in a small, shaky voice.
"I got them," I scooped Nico and Mateo into my left arm, while Elena grabbed Luca. Leo gripped the belt of my trousers with both hands, refusing to let go. "Stay close to me, Leo. Walk fast."
We descended the blood-slicked stairs into the freezing rain of Maverick Street.
Two black SUVs were burning at the curb, thick black smoke billowing into the gray October sky. Across the street, neighbors watched from behind curtains in stunned terror.
At the end of the block, three Boston police cruisers were screaming toward us, sirens wailing, their red and blue flashers painting the wet asphalt. Beside them, news vans with satellite dishes from Channel 5 and Fox 25 were already screeching to a halt, cameras deploying on tripods.
Salvatore had called the media. He had planned to televise my "tragic death" at the hands of rival gang members.
"Boss, the press," Dante warned, opening the rear door of the armored Maybach. "We can take the alley behind the pier to avoid the cameras."
I stopped on the sidewalk.
Rain poured over my head, washing the brick dust from my hair and shoulders. I looked down at the four boys clinging to me. I looked at Elena, shivering in the cold, her eyes filled with the haunting fear that had chased her for six long years.
"No," I said firmly.
"Dominic, what are you doing?" Elena begged, pulling Luca closer to her chest. "Get in the car!"
"No more running," I told her, my voice carrying over the wailing sirens. "No more shadows. No more hiding in dingy walk-ups."
I turned toward the reporters who were spilling out of their vans, microphones in hand, cameras pointing directly at us through the rain.
I hoisted Nico higher onto my hip, placed my other hand firmly on Leo's shoulder, and stepped directly into the glare of the television lights.
A female reporter from CBS pushed forward, her eyes wide as she took in the scene—the burning cars, the blood on my knuckles, and the four identical boys standing beside me.
"Mr. Moretti!" she shouted over the noise. "What happened here? Who are these children?"
I stared directly into the main camera lens, knowing that right now, in the penthouse on Beacon Hill, Salvatore Moretti and Richard Barrett were watching this live broadcast.
"My name is Dominic Moretti," I said, my voice dead, clear, and ringing with absolute certainty. "These are my sons: Leo, Mateo, Luca, and Nico Moretti. They are the sole and legitimate heirs to the Moretti family estate."
I paused, letting the words sink into the collective conscience of the city.
May you like
"And to whoever sent armed men into my children’s home this morning," I leaned toward the lens, my eyes burning with lethal intent, "pray the police find you before I do."
I turned, ushered Elena and the boys into the warmth of the armored Maybach, and slammed the door shut.
