Chapter 4 - The Shadow of Marcone
The wooden doorframe splintered with a deafening CRACK.
Two men in heavy leather jackets surged into the small apartment, their hands drawing suppressed firearms from their waistbands.
Dominic didn't hesitate. He didn't ask questions. He moved with the brutal, terrifying fluidity of a man who had survived twenty years of territorial warfare.
He fired two rapid shots through his coat pocket.
The muffled thump-thump of his weapon echoed in the tight space. The lead intruder collapsed backward into the hallway, his gun clattering across the linoleum floor.
The second intruder managed to raise his weapon, aiming directly at Dominic’s chest.
Naomi reacted without thinking. She grabbed the heavy brass desk lamp from the side table and slammed it with all her strength against the side of the gunman’s head.
The man stumbled, his shot firing wildly into the ceiling, raining plaster dust down upon them.
Dominic closed the distance instantly, his left hand gripping the attacker’s throat, slamming him violently against the exposed brick wall. Dominic drove the barrel of his gun directly under the man’s jaw.
“Who sent you?” Dominic growled, his face inches from the bleeding gunman’s, his voice sounding like grinding stones.
The man choked, blood pouring from his nose. “Marcone... Marcone knows... she’s here...”
Dominic brought the butt of his gun down on the man’s temple, knocking him unconscious onto the floor.
Silence slammed back into the room, broken only by the hiss of the radiator and the sound of heavy, rapid breathing.
Dust floated through the air in grey streams.
Dominic turned around instantly, dropping his weapon to his side. His eyes swept frantically over Naomi.
“Are you hit?” he demanded, his voice laced with pure, unadulterated terror. He grabbed her shoulders, his hands shaking as he inspected her arms, her chest, her face. “Naomi! Are you bleeding? Look at me!”
“I’m... I’m fine,” Naomi gasped out, her chest heaving, plaster dust clinging to her dark hair.
Dominic pulled her violently against his chest, wrapping his heavy arms around her as if he could absorb her back into his skin. His heart hammered like a war drum against her cheek.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered fiercely into her hair, his body trembling with adrenaline and horror. “I’ve got you. They’re dead. You’re safe.”
Naomi stood frozen in his grip, feeling the terrifying heat of his body, the absolute desperation in his voice.
She realized then the bitter, tragic irony of their life: Dominic Moretti was only capable of showing his true feelings when someone was trying to kill them.
She pulled back gently, breaking his grip.
Dominic looked down at her, his hazel eyes wide and dark with frantic energy. “We’re leaving. Right now. Marcone has spotters on this block. My men are coming, but we have to move.”
Naomi looked at the two unconscious men on her floor, then looked at her grandmother’s ruined doorway.
The peaceful, simple life she had tried to reach for twelve hours ago had been shattered in thirty seconds by the bloody gravity of the Moretti name.
“They tracked me here because of you,” Naomi said quietly, her voice trembling slightly.
Dominic closed his eyes, a look of profound, crushing guilt washing over his face.
“Yes,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “They tracked my car. I was careless because... because I was afraid of losing you.”
Naomi took a slow, deep breath, wiping a smudge of plaster dust from her forehead.
“Where do we go?” she asked.
May you like
Dominic opened his eyes, the cold, calculating intelligence returning to his gaze, but now tempered by a fierce, protective focus he had never felt before.
“To the safehouse in Brooklyn,” Dominic said, reaching out to take her small hand in his, his grip firm and unbreakable. “And then I end this war once and for all.”
