Chapter 9 - WRATH OF THE DON
Fifty-two minutes.
That was how long I sat tied to a metal chair in the center of the slaughterhouse, listening to Matteo cry himself hoarse in the corner. I had managed to wiggle my wrists just enough to loosen the zip-ties slightly, the metal edge of my trauma shears slowly sawing through the thick plastic. My wrists were bloody and raw, but I didn't stop.
Falcone sat at a makeshift table, drinking espresso from a thermos, entirely too confident. Marco stood near the playpen, looking nervous. He kept glancing at his watch.
"He's not coming alone," Marco muttered. "Moretti isn't stupid."
"He is desperate," Falcone corrected smoothly. "A desperate man is a stupid man."
At exactly fifty-nine minutes, the heavy metal roll-up doors at the far end of the warehouse rattled. The engines of multiple vehicles rumbled outside. Falcone smiled. "Right on time. Bring him in."
The small side door opened, and Dominic walked in.
He was entirely alone. He wore his black suit, his hands raised in the air, his coat unbuttoned to show he was unarmed. His face was an emotionless mask, carved from granite. But his eyes... his eyes were the eyes of a demon let off its leash. He locked eyes with me for a fraction of a second, cataloging the blood on my face, the ropes binding me. The muscle in his jaw ticked.
"Vincenzo," Dominic said, his voice carrying clearly across the vast space. "I am here. Let them go."
"The paperwork first," Falcone said, pushing a folder across the table.
Dominic didn't even look at it. He kept walking slowly toward the center of the room. "I said, let them go."
"Stop right there, Moretti!" Marco shouted, leveling his gun at Dominic's chest.
Dominic paused. He looked at Marco, tilting his head slightly. "Marco. I trusted you to protect my home. To protect my son."
"They paid me triple what you did, boss," Marco sneered, though his gun trembled. "Nothing personal."
"It is entirely personal," Dominic said softly.
Then, all hell broke loose.
Dominic hadn't come alone. He had just come in the front door to distract them.
The skylights above us shattered simultaneously, raining glass down on the warehouse floor. Dark figures repelled through the broken windows on ropes—Silas and the elite Moretti strike team. Before Falcone's men could even aim their weapons upwards, flashbang grenades detonated with blinding, deafening concussions.
The warehouse erupted into chaos. Gunfire tore through the air, deafening and chaotic. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for a bullet.
Using the distraction, I violently wrenched my wrists apart. The weakened zip-tie snapped. I was free. I didn't hesitate. I threw myself out of the chair and sprinted toward the playpen, diving across the concrete as bullets chewed up the floor behind me.
I grabbed Matteo, shielding his small body with my own, curling into a tight ball in the corner behind a heavy metal pillar.
Through the smoke and strobe-light flashes of gunfire, I watched Dominic move. He wasn't the restrained businessman I knew. He was a lethal force of nature. He had drawn a second weapon hidden in an ankle holster and was moving through the room with terrifying precision. Every shot he took found a target. He was fighting his way toward us, a one-man army carving through the Falcone syndicate.
Marco panicked. He spun around, aiming his gun wildly toward the playpen. Toward me.
"Die, bitch!" he screamed.
Before he could pull the trigger, a massive shadow loomed over him. Dominic slammed into Marco with the force of a freight train. He didn't shoot him. He grabbed Marco's gun hand, twisting it violently until a sickening snap echoed over the gunfire. Marco screamed, dropping the weapon. Dominic drove his knee into Marco's chest, throwing him to the ground, and delivered a brutal, merciless blow to the traitor's face, neutralizing him instantly.
The firefight lasted less than three minutes. When the smoke finally began to clear, Vincenzo Falcone's men were either dead or surrendering to Silas's squad.
Falcone himself was crawling toward the exit, bleeding heavily from a gunshot wound to the leg.
Dominic didn't even look at him. Silas stepped forward, dragging Falcone back to the center of the room. Dominic ignored the whimpering Don entirely. He dropped his weapon and ran toward the pillar where I was huddled.
He dropped to his knees, sliding across the bloody concrete, pulling me and Matteo into his chest. His hands were shaking violently as they roamed over my face, checking my head wound, checking the baby.
"Are you hit?" he demanded, his voice breaking. "Elara, talk to me. Are you shot?"
"I'm okay," I sobbed, the adrenaline finally crashing, leaving me weak and trembling. "Matteo is okay. We're safe."
Dominic buried his face into my neck, breathing in my scent, holding us so tightly I could feel the violent pounding of his heart against my ribs. "I thought I lost you," he choked out, the ruthless mafia boss finally breaking down. "I thought I lost everything."
"You didn't," I whispered, wrapping my arms around his neck, holding him back. "We're here. I've got you."
Dominic pulled back, his eyes fiercely locked onto mine. Ignoring the blood, the carnage, the men watching us, he kissed me. It wasn't like the desperate kiss in the study. This was a claim. A promise. A vow sealed in blood and cordite.
He pulled away slowly, pressing his forehead to mine. "Never again," he swore. "No one will ever touch you again."
He stood up, helping me to my feet, keeping Matteo securely tucked in my arms. He turned to look at Vincenzo Falcone, who was bleeding out on the floor, surrounded by Moretti guns. The tenderness vanished from Dominic's eyes, replaced by absolute zero.
May you like
"Silas," Dominic said coldly. "Burn it down. With him inside."
As Dominic led me out of the slaughterhouse, the screams of his enemy echoing behind us, I knew there was no going back. I had crossed the threshold. I belonged to the Don of Chicago, and God help anyone who tried to tear us apart.
