Chapter 6 - The Yellow Rubber Glove
Two months after the summit, peace had settled over Manhattan.
Dante Moretti’s syndicate had been completely dissolved, his lieutenants arrested or absorbed into the Conti organization’s legitimate shipping businesses.
It was a rainy Tuesday morning in October.
Clara and Maya were returning from a morning trip to a private pediatric clinic in Midtown. They were escorted by two of Damian’s top security guards, riding in a dark armored SUV driven by a senior driver named Hank.
As the SUV stopped at a red light near an industrial intersection near Pier 88, a heavy delivery truck suddenly ran the light, slamming into the front bumper of the SUV!
CRASH!
The impact deployed the airbags, disorienting Hank and the guards!
Before the guards could recover, four masked men in black rain slicks jumped out from a secondary van behind them, throwing tear gas canisters into the shattered windows of the SUV!
"Get the girl!" a voice roared through the smoke!
Clara fought frantically, kicking and screaming as a heavy hand grabbed her arms! "Maya! Run!"
Little Maya, terrified, fought back with all her tiny strength, grabbing her small yellow rubber glove—which she still carried everywhere in her pocket—and slapping one of the masked men across the face!
The hitman cursed, yanking Maya by her arm and dragging both mother and child into the back of the black van!
During the violent struggle at the edge of the sidewalk, Maya’s small yellow rubber glove was ripped from her hand. It tumbled into the rushing rainwater of the gutter, washing down into the iron grid of a storm drain, its empty yellow fingers catching firmly on the rusty iron bars.
The black van sped away into the blinding rainstorm.
Ten minutes later, Damian’s car arrived on the scene like a bolt of thunder.
Damian slammed his car door open, rushing toward the wrecked SUV. His face was pale, his heart hammering against his ribs in a wild, terrifying panic he had never felt in his life.
"Boss!" Hank groaned from the sidewalk, his forehead bleeding. "They took them... smoke gas... we couldn't..."
Damian ignored the driver. He scanned the wet asphalt like a hunting hound, his eyes darting across every inch of the rain-soaked street.
Then he stopped.
Near the curb, half-submerged in the rushing brown water of the storm drain, sat a bright yellow rubber glove.
Damian dropped to his knees in the pouring rain. He reached into the rushing water, pulling the small yellow glove out of the rusty iron grid. He pressed it against his chest, holding it so tightly his knuckles turned white.
A cold, apocalyptic fury filled Damian’s veins—a darkness far greater than anything he had ever summoned before.
Nico ran up beside him, holding an encrypted tracking receiver. "Boss! The van’s cell-signal jammer is bouncing off the river relays! They're heading toward the abandoned shipping warehouse at Pier 88!"
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Damian stood up slowly from the wet pavement. He tucked the yellow rubber glove safely into his breast pocket, right over his heart.
"Mobilize the entire family," Damian ordered, his voice dropping into a tone that sounded like grinding iron. "Every man, every gun. We are going to Pier 88."
