Chapter 5 - Whispers in the Shadows
The atmosphere in the Collazo manor changed overnight.
What had felt like a luxurious sanctuary suddenly felt like a command bunker under siege. Men in tactical gear patrolled the perimeter walls with Belgian Malinois attack dogs. Surveillance monitors in Damian’s private study hummed around the clock, tracking every vehicle within a three-mile radius.
Yet inside the sunlit kitchen, Cesily acted as if nothing were wrong.
“We’re going shopping,” she announced Sunday morning, slamming a mug of hazelnut coffee onto the marble island in front of me.
I stared at her over my toast. “Cesily, there are six men with submachine guns standing by the rose bushes. We are not going shopping.”
“We’re not going to Newbury Street, silly,” Cesily rolled her eyes, smiling brightly. “We’re going to the Collazo private showroom downtown. It’s located inside the vault building on State Street. Completely fortified. Bulletproof entrance, private underground parking. And more importantly, Finn needs real clothes for the hospital, and you need something other than waitressing slacks.”
Finn looked up from his cereal, milk dripping from his chin. “Can I get sneakers with lights in the heels?”
Cesily squealed. “Yes! Absolutely! Sneakers with lights!”
“Cesily,” I warned, my protective instincts flaring. “Damian said—”
“Damian approved it,” a low voice interrupted from the doorway.
Damian walked in, wearing a crisp charcoal suit, buttoning his cuffs. He looked rested, despite the fact that I knew he hadn't slept; I had heard the muffled roar of engines arriving and departing the compound all through the night.
He walked up behind Finn, ruffling the boy’s hair, then looked across the island at me. His gray eyes swept over my oversized flannel shirt and worn jeans.
“Luca and four men will escort you in two armored Yukons,” Damian said. “You will stay in the vehicle until it is inside the subterranean garage. You will be back before sunset.”
I set my coffee cup down. “Damian, is it safe? Luca said Moretti was hitting your warehouses.”
“Moretti’s warehouse operations in Revere were seized by federal agents at sunrise,” Damian replied smoothly, a cold, predatory smile touching the corners of his lips. “He is currently too busy shredding bank statements to worry about retail shopping. But my precautions remain absolute.”
He stepped closer to me, resting his hand on the back of my wooden stool. His proximity sent a jolt of static through my chest.
“You’ve spent your life hiding in corners, Mave,” he murmured, his voice just low enough that Finn wouldn't hear over the crunch of his cereal. “You don't have to hide anymore. Go buy your brother whatever he points at.”
Two hours later, we were inside the private showroom in downtown Boston.
It was an opulent, private department store catering exclusively to Boston’s elite—and Damian Collazo owned the building. Marble columns arched up to stained-glass skylights, and racks of designer clothing lined the perimeter.
Cesily was in her element. She had already dressed Finn in three different miniature winter coats, laughing as he paraded around the carpet like a tiny runway model.
“Look, Mave!” Finn yelled, stamping his feet. Blue and red LED lights flashed brilliantly in the thick soles of his brand-new high-tops. “I’m a spaceship!”
“You’re a lunatic,” I laughed, the genuine joy in his face melting away weeks of terror.
I picked up a warm cashmere sweater from a rack—emerald green, soft as down. The price tag read $1,400. My fingers recoiled as if the fabric were on fire.
“Try it on,” Damian’s voice rumbled behind me.
I gasped, spinning around. “What are you doing here? You said you had meetings with port authorities.”
“Meetings ended early,” he said, stepping into the alcove. He wore a heavy wool overcoat, his hands gloved in black leather. He reached past me, lifting the green sweater from the rack. “The color matches your eyes.”
My breath caught in my throat. “Damian, this costs more than my monthly rent on Dorchester Avenue.”
“Rent in Dorchester Avenue was an insult to you,” he said flatly. He handed the sweater to a nearby sales associate who bowed slightly and hurried toward the counter. “It’s yours.”
“You can’t just buy things for me!”
“I can do whatever I please, Miss Donovan.”
Before I could launch into a lecture on financial independence, the glass skylight above us shattered with an ear-splitting crack.
*CRACK-CRACK-CRACK.*
The sound of high-caliber rifle fire ripped through the cavernous showroom. Shards of heavy glass rained down like knives, exploding against the marble floor.
Finn screamed.
Every maternal instinct in my body surged. I didn't think about my fractured ribs, didn't think about the pain. I lunged forward toward Finn, but Damian was already moving.
With terrifying speed, Damian slammed his body into me and Finn, tackling us both behind a massive load-bearing marble pillar just as a spray of automatic rounds pulverized the clothing racks where we had been standing seconds before.
Fabric ripped. Mirrors exploded into dust.
“Down! Stay down!” Damian roared.
Across the room, Luca and his men had their weapons drawn. The roar of return fire was deafening—deep, rhythmic thuds of semi-automatic pistols echoing against the vaulted ceiling.
Finn was sobbing, his face buried into my stomach, trembling so hard I thought his fragile heart would stop right there.
“I’ve got you, Finn, I’ve got you,” I chanted, curling my body entirely over him, using my back as a shield once again. “Close your eyes, baby. Sing the song. Sing the pirate song.”
“Yo-ho… yo-ho…” Finn choked out, gasping for air, clutching my wrists.
Damian pulled a matte-black firearm from beneath his overcoat. His expression wasn't panicked; it was calculated, lethal perfection. He leaned out from behind the pillar, fired two precise shots toward the catwalks above, and ducked back as plaster rained on his shoulders.
A heavy body plummeted from the iron rafters, crashing onto a glass display case with a sickening crunch.
“Cesily!” Damian shouted over the gunfire.
“I’m under the cash counter!” Cesily screamed back, her voice shaking but safe behind reinforced steel partitions.
“Luca! Flank the eastern emergency stairwell!” Damian ordered through his radio. “Do not let them reach the street!”
The shooting stopped abruptly. The sudden silence was suffocating, filled only with the smell of cordite, gunpowder, and the hiss of broken sprinkler pipes starting to spray water across the ceiling.
Footsteps echoed—rapid, tactical boots retreating toward the roof access.
Luca appeared around the corner of the pillar, his weapon lowered, a smear of soot on his cheek. “Shooters are neutralized or fleeing across the adjacent rooftops, boss. Two snipers. Hired guns. South American cartel contractors.”
“Moretti,” Damian growled, his jaw clenching so hard the scar on his face turned stark white.
“Yes, sir.”
Damian holstered his weapon. He turned immediately to me and Finn.
I was still shaking, hovering over my brother, my fingers digging into his little shoulders. Finn was pale, his lips taking on that faint, bluish hue that always terrified me whenever his stress levels spiked.
Damian dropped to his knees in the puddles of sprinkler water. He laid his large, leather-gloved hand gently over Finn’s chest, feeling the frantic, fluttering rhythm of the boy’s damaged heart.
“Finn,” Damian said, his voice dropping into that deep, hypnotic calm. “Look at me, son.”
Finn sniffled, his tear-streaked face turning up toward Damian.
“Did you get hit?” Damian asked.
“N-no,” Finn whispered.
“Did Mave get hit?”
“No.”
Damian tapped the glowing heels of Finn’s new sneakers. “Good. Because a spaceship doesn't get taken down by stray glass. You did great, Finn. You held the line.”
Finn let out a trembling breath, nodding slowly, clutching Damian’s sleeve with his small fist.
Then Damian looked up at me.
His eyes were filled with an intensity that burned right through the cold water dripping from my hair. He reached out, his thumb catching a tiny fleck of glass near my hairline and brushing it away with infinite gentleness.
“Are you hurt?” he whispered.
“No,” I choked out, a fresh wave of adrenaline making my voice crack. “No, I’m okay. Finn needs his inhaler. It’s in my bag.”
Damian retrieved the bag, handed me the medicine, and waited as I helped Finn take two slow puffs.
Once Finn’s breathing stabilized, Damian stood up. The warmth vanished from his eyes, replaced by an abyss of cold, unrelenting darkness. He looked at Luca.
May you like
“Call the council,” Damian said, his voice echoing off the shattered marble walls. “Tell them Victor Moretti has broken the sacred peace. Tell them the Collazo family is going to war tonight. And tell them by tomorrow morning, Victor Moretti will no longer exist.”
***
