Chapter 3 - THE WAREHOUSE AND THE AMBUSH
Jimmy Morelli’s face went from angry red to a blotchy, mottled purple.
He looked at Sal, who was cowering near the walk-in freezer, then back at Nico, whose hand was resting casually inside his charcoal jacket.
"The dog was soft, Nico!" Jimmy scoffed, trying to mask his sudden nervousness with loud, boisterous laughter. "He’s been soft ever since you brought him back from that yard in Providence! We’re running a multi-million-dollar waterfront operation, not a damn pet rescue! The delegates need to see teeth!"
"The dog was bleeding to death," Madeline interrupted, her voice cutting through Jimmy’s bravado like a rusty saw.
Jimmy’s eyes snapped to her. He sized her up—noticing her stained apron, her messy hair, her heavy frame, and the fierce glare in her brown eyes.
"Shut up, kitchen girl," Jimmy spat, waving a dismissive hand at her. "Go sweep the front or whatever it is they pay you by the pound to do."
Madeline didn't flinch. She took a step toward Jimmy, her broad chest heaving with cold fury. "I don't care who you think you are, greaseball. You touch this dog again and I'll use those heavy shears to cut that gold chain right off your fat neck."
Jimmy’s jaw dropped in absolute shock.
Behind them, Nico let out a low, dark chuckle—a sound so rare that his two lieutenants near the door swapped bewildered glances.
"You heard her, Jimmy," Nico said, stepping between Jimmy and Madeline, his tall frame blocking her from Jimmy’s sight. "She doesn't like your manners. And frankly, neither do I."
Jimmy took a step back, his eyes narrowing into two hateful slits. "You're taking the side of a five-dollar-an-hour waitress over your own blood, Nico? Over your family?"
"Family doesn't sabotage my assets," Nico said softly. "Family doesn't ruin my business meetings by poisoning my dog with cheap electrical wire. You're off the harbor project, Jimmy."
"What?!" Jimmy roared, his hands twitching toward his waist. "You can't strip me of the docks! The board—"
"I am the board," Nico said flatly. "Get out of my kitchen."
Jimmy stood frozen for three agonizing seconds, his teeth grinding together so hard his jaw muscles bulged. He looked at Nico, then shot a look of pure, concentrated venom at Madeline.
"This isn't over, Nico," Jimmy hissed, turning on his heel. "You're losing your edge. Letting a fat maid tell you how to run your business... the waterfront is going to eat you alive."
Jimmy and his two men slammed out the rear exit, the heavy metal door echoing through the alleyway outside.
Silence returned to the kitchen.
Madeline took a deep breath, feeling the adrenaline that had been keeping her upright begin to fade. Her lower back throbbed with a dull, sickening ache. Her left shoe was completely split now, the damp cold of the kitchen floor seeping through her sock.
Nico turned back to her. His dark eyes swept over her exhausted face, taking in the pale color under her cheeks, the slight sway in her posture.
"You need a ride home, Miss Brooks," Nico said. It wasn't a question.
"I have a bus to catch," Madeline said, reaching for her coat hanging on the wall rack. "The 111 goes straight to Chelsea."
"The 111 bus doesn't run after eleven on Tuesdays," Nico replied smoothly, pulling a sleek gold pocket watch from his vest. "It's eleven-forty. And it is freezing rain outside."
Madeline paused, her hand hovering over her faded winter coat. She knew he was right. She had spent her last forty dollars giving Danny ride money for his mother’s car. She had thirty-three dollars left in her account. An Uber to Chelsea would cost forty-five.
"I can walk," she said stubbornness radiating from every line of her body.
"Atlas can't walk," Nico pointed out, gesturing to the pit bull, who was still lying on the stainless-steel prep table, his eyes fixed entirely on Madeline. "He won't let Sal touch him. He won't get into the SUV unless you carry him."
Madeline looked at the dog. Atlas lifted his broad head, giving a tiny, hopeful whine.
She let out a long, defeated sigh. "Fine. But I'm sitting in the back with him."
Ten minutes later, a massive, bulletproof black Cadillac Escalade pulled out of the alley behind Bellaforte, its heavy tires splashing through the deep rain puddles of Hanover Street.
Inside, the leather was thick, black, and smelled of new car scent and cedarwood.
Madeline sat in the spacious captain's chairs in the middle row, Atlas’s heavy head resting comfortably across her lap. Her hands gently stroked his soft gray ears, her fingers tracing the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing.
Nico sat in the back row, his long legs crossed, watching her through the dim ambient lighting of the luxury interior.
"Where in Chelsea?" Nico asked quietly.
"Margin Street," Madeline replied, staring out the tinted window as the silver lights of the Tobin Bridge loomed in the distance through the sheets of rain. "Near the old sugar refinery."
Nico’s brows lifted slightly. "That's a rough neighborhood for a woman living alone."
"It's eighty-five square feet of studio apartment with a radiator that clanks all night," Madeline said, her voice flat. "It's what eighty-five dollars a night in tips buys in Boston."
"You could make five times that working at my private club on Beacon Hill," Nico said smoothly.
Madeline turned her head, looking at him through the darkness of the SUV. "I don't work for men who carry guns, Mr. Morelli."
"You're working for one right now," Nico noted softly.
"I'm working for him," Madeline corrected, tapping the dog’s wet nose. "He’s the only one in this car who doesn't lie."
A heavy silence settled over the vehicle as the Escalade rumbled onto the steel span of the Tobin Bridge. Below them, the dark, icy waters of the Mystic River churned in the storm.
Suddenly, the driver—a silent, broad-shouldered man named Marco—looked sharply into the rearview mirror.
"Boss," Marco said, his voice instantly tense. "We've got two dark Ford Explorers coming up fast behind us on the center lane. No lights."
Nico didn't panic. He slowly reached inside his coat, pulling out a sleek, dark automatic pistol with a custom silver grip.
"Jimmy?" Nico asked softly.
"Looks like his harbor crew," Marco replied, stepping down hard on the accelerator. The massive V8 engine roared to life, propelling the heavy vehicle forward across the slippery bridge deck. "They're trying to box us in before the Chelsea exit!"
Atlas stiffened on Madeline’s lap, letting out a low, guttural growl.
Madeline’s heart hammered against her ribs, but she didn't scream. She wrapped both arms around the dog, pinning him safely against her chest, crouching low between the leather seats.
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"Stay down, Madeline," Nico commanded, his voice turning into pure, icy steel as he rolled down the rear passenger window three inches. Cold rain and the deafening roar of wind rushed into the luxury cabin.
Behind them, a sharp POP-POP-POP echoed through the storm—the metallic crack of automatic gunfire echoing off the bridge supports!
