Chapter 4 - The Breach at the Estate
The drive from Red Hook to my gated estate in Dyker Heights took nine minutes. Nine minutes of agonizing, terrifying silence as my armored SUV tore through red lights, rain spraying off the windshield like tears.
My estate was supposed to be an impenetrable fortress: ten-foot stone walls, security cameras every twenty feet, and a four-man team of heavily armed guards patrolling the grounds around the clock.
When my vehicle pulled through the shattered wrought-iron gates, I saw the truth.
Two of my security guards lay unconscious on the wet lawn. The front double doors of the mansion were hanging off their hinges, blown open by a tactical breach charge.
"Spread out!" I roared to Marco and Gianni as I jumped out of the vehicle before it had even come to a complete stop. "Clear the grounds! Find my son!"
I sprinted through the front entrance into the marble foyer. The air was thick with the acrid smell of burnt cordite and flashbang residue. The grand chandelier swung gently overhead, casting frantic shadows across the overturned furniture.
"Luca!" I screamed, my voice raw with terror. "LUCA!"
From the upper balcony, a heavy accent echoed down through the ruined hallway.
"He cannot hear you, Don Moretti."
I snapped my weapon up, pointing it directly at the top of the stairs.
Standing at the landing was Pyotr Rasputin—the head of the Brighton Beach Russian syndicate. He was a massive man with a shaved head, a scarred neck, and a heavy tactical vest worn over a leather coat. Standing behind him were four heavily armed mercenaries carrying short-barreled assault rifles.
And in front of Rasputin, kneeling on the hard floor, were Sophia and Luca.
Sophia was bruised, her lip bleeding, but her arms were wrapped tightly around Luca, shielding my son's body with her own. Luca was crying quietly, his small face buried against Sophia’s chest, clutching the silver-star backpack that belonged to Emma.
"Put the gun down, Alessandro," Rasputin said smoothly, holding a silenced pistol aimed directly at the back of Sophia’s head. "Or the girl dies first, then the boy."
My blood ran cold, but my hands remained rock steady. I kept my pistol leveled at Rasputin’s chest.
"This is between us, Rasputin," I said, my voice dropping into a register that was deathly quiet. "Let the woman and my son go. You want the docks? Take them. You want money? Take it. Leave them out of it."
"Dominic was supposed to deliver you to me tonight," Rasputin spat, his tone laced with disgust. "Instead, he got caught like a stupid rat. He told me you had the master keys to the Newark port servers inside your home office vault. I came for the keys, Moretti. But finding your son... that was a pleasant bonus."
Sophia looked up at me through her bruised eyes, her voice shaking but clear. "Alessandro... he has Emma. His men picked up Emma from her school... she's in a car outside."
The monster hadn't just breached my home; he had taken a six-year-old girl hostage from her after-school care program to ensure Sophia wouldn't run.
"I have the server keys, Rasputin," I said, reaching slowly into my inner coat pocket, pulling out a heavy, encrypted gold flash drive containing the root administrative access codes for the entire Newark maritime grid. "They're right here. Worth fifty million dollars on the black market."
Rasputin’s eyes flared with sudden, intense greed. "Throw it up here."
"Release the boy first," I demanded. "Let Luca walk down the stairs to me."
Rasputin sneered, pointing his weapon at Luca's shoulder. "You are in no position to make demands, Don Moretti—"
BANG.
A single gunshot shattered the glass window behind Rasputin.
It didn't come from my gun. It came from the garden terrace outside the upper hallway.
Old Man Sal and three of my senior capos—men who knew every secret passage and hidden servant entrance built into the estate seventy years ago—burst through the side balcony doors. The bullet struck Rasputin’s primary mercenary in the chest, sending him crashing over the wooden banister to the floor below.
In the fraction of a second of chaos that followed, Sophia acted with instinct.
She didn't run. She grabbed Rasputin’s wrist, biting down on his gun hand with ferocious force. Rasputin roared in pain, dropping the silenced weapon.
"LUCA, RUN!" Sophia screamed, shoving my son toward the stairs.
Luca bolted down the marble steps. I lunged forward, catching him in my arms, pulling him behind the heavy marble pillar near the entrance, shielding him with my body as gunfire erupted across the upper floor.
TA-TA-TA-TA-TA!
Automatic fire tore into the plaster walls. Marco and Gianni advanced up the grand staircase, firing measured, terrifying bursts from their sidearms. The Russian mercenaries were caught in a brutal crossfire between my men coming up the stairs and Sal’s veterans sweeping in from the terrace.
Within thirty seconds, the gunfire stopped.
The heavy thud of bodies hitting the hardwood floor echoed through the mansion, followed by the quiet rattle of spent shell casings rolling down the marble steps.
I stayed crouched behind the pillar, my arms wrapped so tightly around Luca I could feel his fast, panicked heartbeat against my ribs.
"Dad?" he whimpered, clutching my coat. "Is Emma okay?"
"I’m going to find her, buddy," I whispered, kissing the top of his head. "I promise you."
I stood up, holding my pistol ready, stepping out from behind the pillar.
Rasputin was lying on his back near the top of the stairs, clutching a gunshot wound to his leg, bleeding profusely onto the Persian rug. Sophia was standing over him, holding a heavy brass desk lamp she had grabbed from the hallway table, her breathing ragged, her face flushed with adrenaline.
"Where is the girl?" I asked Rasputin, stepping up the stairs, my boots crunching on shattered glass.
Rasputin coughed up blood, glaring at me with pure venom. "In... in the black van... down the driveway. The driver... has orders to shoot if I don't call in five minutes..."
I didn't waste a second. I turned to Marco. "Get the girl."
Marco turned and sprinted out the front door toward the driveway.
I stood over Rasputin, looking down at the man who had brought violence into my home, who had threatened my son and held an innocent little girl hostage.
"You picked the wrong family to cross, Pyotr," I said softly.
May you like
I didn't pull the trigger. I turned to Sal.
"Call the Federal Prosecutor," I commanded. "Tell them we have the head of the Russian syndicate tied up in my foyer, along with the complete paper trail linking him to Dominic Vance’s treason. Let the federal government clean up both of these trash fires at once."
