Chapter 3 - The Gathering of the Wolves
The high-pitched screech of heavy tires tearing over wet asphalt tore through the quiet street.
A convoy of blacked-out Cadillac Escalades—not one or two, but nearly twenty armored vehicles—swarmed the intersection like a pack of hunting wolves taking over a city block. They mounted the sidewalks, blocking off the cross streets, their high-beam halogen lights cutting through the rain and blinding the dark sedan that had been waiting near the corner.
Doors flew open in perfect, military unison.
Men in dark tailored suits and tactical vests poured into the rain, heavy submachine guns held at low-ready positions. They moved with frightening, practiced precision, shutting down the entire block in under six seconds.
Inside the dark sedan across the street, two men tried to scramble out of their doors. They didn't make it five feet. They were slammed onto the wet hood of their car, disarmed, and forced to their knees before they could even draw their weapons.
At the head of the convoy, a massive, custom-built bulletproof Suburban ground to a halt directly in front of Bellamy’s double doors.
The rear door opened.
A man stepped out into the rain.
He did not carry a weapon. He didn't need to.
He was in his mid-forties, wearing an immaculate charcoal three-piece suit cut from Italian wool that absorbed the rain without flinching. His dark hair was silvered at the temples, combed back neatly from a face that looked as though it had been chiseled out of granite. His eyes were a terrifying, icy shade of gray-blue—the exact same eyes as the little girl currently hiding under Emma's table.
Dominic Moretti.
The undisputed head of the Moretti Syndicate—the man who controlled the docks, the unions, and the darkunderbelly of three states. A man whose name made district attorneys resign and rival bosses disappear into the deep waters of the Hudson River.
Dominic didn't run. He walked toward the bakery with a cold, terrifying calm that was far more frightening than rage. Four armed men flanked him, their eyes scanning the windows, but Dominic’s gaze was fixed entirely on the glass front door.
Inside, the man Emma had pinned against the wall was still groaning, his eyes chemical-burned and bleeding. Emma had dragged him to his knees, her heavy knee planted firmly in the middle of his back, holding his wrists locked behind him with her apron strings. She was breathing hard, her chestnut braid coming undone, flour smeared across her forehead.
The front doors of the bakery swung open.
The rain-chilled air rushed in, carrying the scent of gunpowder, wet leather, and cold ocean wind.
Dominic Moretti stepped over the threshold. His polished leather shoes clicked against the tile. His gaze swept the room in a single second—taking in the shattered muffin case, the gunman pinned on the floor, the heavy steam rising from the coffee machine, and finally, the large, plus-size woman standing over his traitorous captain like a victorious shield-maiden.
Dominic’s eyes narrowed.
"Victor," Dominic said. His voice was smooth, deep, and carried a terrifying raspy resonance that filled the room.
The man on the floor groaned under Emma's knee. "Boss... boss, please... she... she blinded me..."
Dominic ignored him completely. His terrifying gray-blue eyes locked onto Emma.
"Where is my daughter?" Dominic asked softly.
There was no yelling in his voice. Just a flat line of pure, lethal absolute priority.
Emma didn't flinch. She looked the most dangerous man in New York directly in his eyes, refusing to bow her head, refusing to apologize for her presence, and refusing to step back.
"She’s safe," Emma said, her voice clear, firm, and carrying the quiet strength of the outer boroughs. "Because I kept her safe while your people were using her as target practice."
A faint, dangerous shift occurred in the room. The four armed men behind Dominic subtly raised their weapons toward Emma.
Emma didn't care. She looked down toward the booth.
Mia, Emma signed with her right hand, keeping her left hand firmly planted on Victor’s neck. It’s okay. Your papa is here.
From beneath the dark wooden table of the corner booth, a tiny head emerged.
Mia looked out, her gray-blue eyes catching the towering figure of her father standing in the center of the bakery. She didn't cry out—she couldn't—but her face lit up with a mixture of profound relief and fierce love.
She scrambled out from under the table, running across the floor in her small black leather shoes, bypassing the men with guns, bypassing the shattered glass, and threw herself directly into Dominic’s arms.
The mob boss dropped to one knee instantly.
The terrifying, icy armor he wore vanished in a single heartbeat. He caught his daughter, lifting her small body effortlessly against his chest, burying his face in her neck, his broad shoulders shaking once with a deep, silent breath that revealed just how close he had come to losing his entire world.
Mia pulled back, her hands moving with frantic speed against her father's lapels.
Papa! she signed, her face expressive and fierce. Victor lied! He took my tracker! He locked me here! But the bakery lady saved me! She used the magic water and hit Victor! She talks with her hands like auntie taught me!
Dominic watched his daughter’s hands move. He understood the signs—he had spent years learning them—and as he translated Mia's rapid frantic movements, his head slowly turned back toward Emma.
He looked at the flour on her face. He looked at her broad, soft frame, her heavy hands, her stained apron, and the absolute lack of fear in her dark brown eyes.
Dominic stood up slowly, holding Mia securely on his left hip.
He walked toward Emma until he was standing less than two feet away.
The deadliest man in the city looked at the thirty-one-year-old plus-size baker, and for the first time in twenty years... he bowed his head in genuine respect.
"My name is Dominic Moretti," he said, his raspy voice filled with a quiet, reverberating weight. "You saved my life tonight, Miss...?"
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"Emma," she replied, straightening her posture, wiping a streak of sweat from her neck. "Emma Brooks."
"Emma," Dominic repeated, tasting the name like a promise. "You have no idea what you have just started. And you have no idea what I am going to do for you."
