Chapter 6 - Siege on Park Slope
The brownstone in Park Slope was quiet, lit only by a soft yellow warm glow from the second-floor nursery window.
It was ten-thirty at night. The cold rain was coming down in sheets, bouncing off the sleek hood of my black Escalade as we pulled up to the curb half a block down from Naomi’s house.
Behind me, two secondary SUVs slid into position, silently blocking the alleyway and the rear exit of the block.
Through the rain-streaked windshield, I saw them.
A dark gray sedan parked near a fire hydrant fifty yards away. Inside sat two men in dark heavy coats, their faces illuminated by the faint blue glow of a long-lens camera directed straight at Naomi’s front window.
I didn't wait for Marcus.
I opened my door, stepping out into the pouring rain, pulling my heavy coat around my shoulders as I strode directly toward the gray sedan. Marcus and two tactical officers followed two paces behind me, their hands concealed inside their jackets.
I reached the driver’s side door of the gray sedan and tapped his window with the heavy silver signet ring on my right hand.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
The driver rolled down the glass three inches, his hand reaching toward his waist. “Can I help you, pal?”
Before he could pull his weapon, I grabbed him by the throat through the open window, dragging his face hard against the door frame.
CRACK!
The glass shattered. The driver screamed in pain as I yanked the door open, throwing him face-first onto the wet pavement. Behind him, the passenger reached for a submachine gun resting on the floorboards, but Marcus was already there, reaching in, wrenching his arm backward until a sickening POP echoed through the cabin.
Within fifteen seconds, both of Petrov’s scouts were disarmed, bleeding, and forced onto their knees in the dark alleyway behind the brownstone.
I knelt down in front of the driver, gripping his soaked hair, forcing his head back.
“Tell Grigori,” I whispered into his ear, my voice so cold it silenced his whimpers, “that if he ever sends his dogs into my daughter’s neighborhood again, I will personally feed him to the fish in the Hudson River.”
I threw him back onto the asphalt and nodded to Marcus. “Get these pieces of trash out of my sight. Clean up the street.”
“Yes, Boss.”
I turned around and walked up the front brownstone steps, my leather boots leaving wet footprints on the stone.
I knocked on the heavy wooden door—three firm, measured beats.
Silence followed.
Then came the sound of quick, nervous footsteps inside, followed by the slide of a safety chain. The door opened three inches, held back by a heavy iron security latch.
Naomi stood in the narrow opening, holding a heavy brass candlestick holder like a weapon, her dark hair pulled back into a messy bun, wearing a soft gray sweater and jeans.
When her eyes landed on me—wet, standing on her porch with blood on my signet ring—her face drained of all color.
“Julian...?” she gasped, her hands shaking. “What are you doing here?! I told you—”
“Open the door, Naomi,” I said, my voice quiet, strained, and stripped of all arrogance. “Now.”
“No! I am calling the police!”
“Petrov’s men were outside five minutes ago taking photos of Lily’s nursery window,” I stated flatly.
Naomi froze. The brass candlestick holder slipped from her fingers, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor inside.
The iron security chain unlatched. The heavy wooden door swung open completely.
Naomi stood in the entryway, her wide amber eyes filled with absolute, paralyzed horror.
“What... what did you say?” she whispered.
May you like
I stepped through the threshold into her home, shutting the heavy oak door behind me, locking the deadbolts.
“You wanted to keep her safe from my world, Naomi,” I murmured, stepping into her hallway, the warmth of her home filling my senses. “But my world just found her. And now, neither of you is ever leaving my sight again.”
