Chapter 8 - The Clearing of the Board
The rain had begun to lessen by three in the morning, turning into a thin, persistent drizzle that hung over the city like a grey shroud.
Tommy’s unmarked car had pulled away ten minutes earlier, carrying Nancy Cooper away from the wreckage of the Gallow Estate. D’Angelo watched the taillights disappear into the gloom of the long tree-lined driveway before he walked back inside the garage.
He opened the driver’s door of the black sedan and climbed inside.
In the back seat, Camila was curled into a ball, weeping quietly. Her hair was matted with sweat, her silk robe ruined, her expensive vanity reduced to ash and broken glass.
“D’Angelo… please,” she sobbed, looking up at him in the rearview mirror. “Don't do this. I’ll leave. I’ll never come back to this city. I’ll tell everyone I died.”
D’Angelo didn't answer her. He started the engine, the powerful V8 humming to life with a deep, muffled thrum. He hit the control button on the visor; the heavy steel garage door rolled open with a loud metallic rattle, exposing the dark, wet night.
He drove out onto the estate’s secondary access road, avoiding the main gates where emergency response vehicles would eventually arrive once the automated alarm report cleared the precinct queue.
He drove in silence for twenty minutes, heading deep into the industrial district near the docks—a place of rusted shipping containers, towering cranes, and dark, oily water.
He pulled the sedan into an abandoned warehouse that smelled of salt water and old diesel fuel.
Another car was already waiting inside: a grey Mercedes SUV with tinted windows. Standing beside it was a tall, stoic man in a dark wool coat holding a silenced pistol—D’Angelo’s primary enforcer and head of security, Victor.
D’Angelo stepped out of the sedan. Victor walked over, bowing his head slightly in respect.
“The perimeter at the estate is secure, boss,” Victor reported, his voice low and monotone. “Tommy cleared the maid. She’s on the plane to Chicago now. The six bodies in the dining room have been identified. All Calibrazi soldiers.”
“And Marco?” D’Angelo asked.
“He’s at Hangar 4 at the municipal airport,” Victor replied, gesturing toward the back of his SUV. “He has a Gulfstream idling on the tarmac. He thinks he’s leaving for Zurich at four a.m.”
D’Angelo walked to the rear door of the sedan, opened it, and grabbed Camila by the arm, pulling her out into the cold air of the warehouse. She stumbled, her bare feet dragging on the rough concrete floor.
“Victor,” D’Angelo said without looking back. “Put her in the SUV.”
“No! D’Angelo, please!” Camila shrieked, kicking and flailing as Victor’s massive hand clamped around her waist like a steel band. “Don't leave me with him! D’Angelo!”
Victor didn't react to her screams. He tossed her into the back of the SUV, shut the door, and locked it, leaving her cries locked inside the soundproof cabin.
“Is the airport team in position?” D’Angelo asked, wiping his wet hands on a dry towel Victor handed him.
May you like
“Six men,” Victor confirmed. “We have the perimeter of Hangar 4 locked down. Marco’s personal detail is small—only three guards. He didn't expect you to survive the night.”
“He calculated the wrong math,” D’Angelo said, reaching into Victor’s coat and taking a fresh, loaded tactical pistol. “Let's go close the account.”
