Chapter 9 - The Name in the Dark
The morning came cold, crisp, and grey over the Brooklyn navy yard.
At 7:00 AM, the door of the safe house opened quietly.
Marcus stepped in. His arm was wrapped in a black sling, his face cut in three places, but he was standing on his own two feet. Behind him were six heavily armed Moretti soldiers in fresh coats.
Rico sat up on the sofa, pulling a black cotton shirt over his bandaged chest.
“Report, Marcus,” Rico said, his voice back to its sharp, iron command.
“Rossi’s main force was wiped out at the perimeter wall,” Marcus reported, stepping into the room. “We captured three of his lieutenants in the east garden. Rossi himself fled back to his estate in Long Island.”
Marcus pulled a secure satellite phone from his pocket and handed it to Rico.
“The Commission has called an emergency session for noon at the Manhattan club,” Marcus added. “The other four families are furious about Rossi firing heavy ordnance in Dyker Heights. They want his head on a platter for bringing federal attention to Brooklyn.”
Rico looked at the phone, his face an unreadable mask of cold stone.
“Where is the boy?” Marcus asked, looking around the room.
“He’s in the back bedroom with Clara,” Rico said, standing up slowly, testing the weight on his injured side. “Prepare the convoy. We are going to Long Island before the Commission meets at noon.”
Marcus paused. “Boss... Rossi’s house is a fortress. If we go in without the Commission’s full approval—”
“Rossi tried to kill my son, Marcus,” Rico said quietly. “There is no negotiation left.”
Suddenly, the bedroom door opened.
Clara walked out holding Leo in her arms. The boy was dressed in a clean blue sweater Marcus had brought from the estate reserves. He looked well-rested, his cheeks bright, his small hands holding a silver pocket watch Rico had given him to play with.
Rico’s face softened instantly as he walked over to them.
He reached out and lifted Leo into his uninjured right arm, pressing his cheek against his son’s soft dark curls.
“Good morning, tesoro,” Rico whispered.
Leo giggled, rubbing his eyes, then pointed a small finger toward the dark window overlooking the canal.
“Papa,” Leo said, his voice clear and bright in the quiet morning air.
“Yes, my brave boy?” Rico asked, smiling softly.
Leo leaned his head against Rico’s neck, his small lips brushing against his father’s ear as he whispered five words—words he had heard spoken in the dark tunnel while his father lay bleeding against the stone wall.
“Uncle Julian said you die.”
The room fell into a terrifying, absolute silence.
Rico froze. His whole body turned to stone. The soft, gentle expression on his face vanished instantly, replaced by a pallor so white, so deathly pale, that Marcus took an involuntary step back toward the door.
“What did you say, Leo?” Rico whispered, his voice shaking with a cold horror that made the air in the room turn to ice.
May you like
Leo looked confused by his father’s reaction. He looked at Clara, then back at Rico.
“Uncle Julian,” Leo repeated clearly, his small hand making a popping sound with his fingers. “In the dark car before the rain. He gave the money to the man with the gun.”
