Chapter 7 - The Road to Montauk
The black Lincoln Navigator hummed smoothly along the Long Island Expressway, cutting through the gray, mist-laden afternoon toward the eastern tip of Long Island.
In the back seat, Leo sat quietly against the leather upholstery, staring out the window as the sprawling urban landscape slowly dissolved into rolling fields, dense pine forests, and distant glimpses of the Atlantic Ocean.
Savannah sat beside him, holding a small sketchbook in her lap, sketching rough charcoal outlines of trees and passing barns to keep the boy calm. In the front passenger seat sat Frankie Duca, his hand resting casually near a tactical pouch on his belt, his eyes constantly scanning the rearview mirror for any sign of a tail.
“How are you holding up back there, kiddo?” Frankie asked, turning his head slightly.
“We’re fine, Frankie,” Savannah replied, adjusting her jacket. “How much longer?”
“About forty minutes,” Frankie muttered, checking his encrypted radio. “Boss just checked in from the city. The Atlantic City play is moving faster than anticipated. Marcone’s accountants are already sweating.”
Savannah looked down at Leo. The boy had rested his head against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. The panic that had gripped him back at the penthouse had melted away under the rhythmic hum of the highway.
She couldn't shake the memory of Dominic’s face before they left—the heavy, dark resignation in his eyes as he watched them drive away from the subterranean garage of the Atoria Grand. He was walking back into the lion's den alone, deliberately painting a target on his own back so that his son could slip away into the shadows.
He’s going to get himself killed, Savannah thought, a cold terror gripping her chest.
Thirty minutes later, the Navigator turned down a secluded, winding gravel drive canopied by towering oak trees. At the end of the road sat a sprawling, weathered cedar-shingle estate overlooking the crashing waves of the Atlantic. It was beautiful, isolated, and completely cut off from the noise of the world.
Frankie killed the engine, stepping out first to scan the perimeter before opening the rear doors.
“All clear,” Frankie announced, offering a hand to help Leo out.
Leo clutched his blue paper crane tightly in his fist, stepping cautiously onto the gravel driveway. Savannah climbed out behind him, breathing in the salty, clean ocean air.
“Alright, kidz,” Frankie said, pulling two duffel bags from the trunk. “The security perimeter is automated—laser tripwires along the property line, satellite uplink in the study, and a panic room behind the master library bookshelf. You’re locked in tighter than Fort Knox.”
“And you?” Savannah asked, looking at Frankie. “Are you staying?”
“I’m heading back to the city to back up the boss,” Frankie said grimly, adjusting his jacket. “Marcone is making his final push tonight at the Atlantic City docks. Dominic is walking right into his trap.”
Savannah’s breath hitched. “A trap? Why is he going if he knows it’s a trap?”
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“Because,” Frankie sighed, shaking his head with a heavy, loyal sorrow. “Some wars you can’t run away from. Lock the doors behind me, Savannah. Don't open them for anyone except me or Dominic.”
Within five minutes, Frankie’s SUV roared down the driveway, kicking up a cloud of dust, leaving Savannah and Leo alone in the vast, echoing silence of the Hamptons estate.
