Chapter 4 - The Traitor’s Ring
The SUV accelerated, speeding toward the deserted shipping yards on the edge of the East River.
“To a safe house, Boss,” Leo replied, his voice unnervingly tight.
Dante didn't draw a weapon. He didn't shout. He leaned forward, his presence filling the cabin with a suffocating, heavy pressure.
“Take the next exit, Leo.”
“Can't do that, Boss. The route is secure.”
“You are wearing a Falcone ring on your right hand,” Dante stated, his tone conversational and terrifying. “A ring you were not wearing this morning. A ring given only to made men who have pledged blood to their Don.”
Leo’s shoulders stiffened. He glanced in the rearview mirror. That was his fatal mistake.
Dante lunged.
He didn't go for his gun. He reached his large hands directly around the headrest, wrapping a thick leather garrote wire—pulled seamlessly from the lining of his coat—around Leo’s throat.
The SUV swerved violently.
“Grab the wheel, Mia!” Dante roared.
I scrambled forward over the center console, ignoring the burning pain in my abdomen. I grabbed the steering wheel as Leo thrashed wildly, his hands clawing at his throat.
“Brake!” Dante commanded.
I slammed my foot down on top of Leo’s heavy boot, pressing the brake pedal to the floor. The massive SUV fishtailed, tires screaming against the wet asphalt, before crashing into a stack of rusted shipping pallets.
The airbags didn't deploy. The reinforced bumper took the brunt of the impact.
Leo slumped forward against the steering wheel, unconscious.
Dante released the wire, breathing heavily. He looked at me, checking my face, my stomach.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his hands hovering near my cheeks.
“I’m okay,” I gasped, trembling violently.
He unbuckled my seatbelt and helped me out of the ruined vehicle. The rain was freezing, slicing through my thin coat. Dante instantly stripped off his suit jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. It smelled of gunmetal and his signature sandalwood cologne.
“Why did he betray you?” I asked, leaning against the cold metal of the SUV. “Leo has been with you for a decade.”
“Because of the Bordeaux Ledger,” Dante said grimly, pulling a burner phone from his pocket. “And because Leo’s allegiance was never to me. It was to my father.”
“Your father is in a federal supermax prison,” I argued.
“My father runs this city from a cell, Mia. You know that.”
Dante dialed a number, waiting in the pouring rain. He looked at me, a profound, aching sorrow in his eyes.
“When my sister, Sofia, died,” Dante whispered softly, stepping closer to shield me from the wind. “My father blamed me. He said I was too soft to protect her. When you left me, he saw it as another failure.”
I clutched the lapels of his jacket. “He ordered the hit on me?”
“He ordered the hit on the child,” Dante corrected, a single tear mixing with the rain on his cheek. “He refuses to let a child of mine inherit his empire. He sold the hit to the Falcones to keep his own hands clean.”
A sleek, unmarked sedan pulled out of the shadows of the shipping yard. It stopped a few feet away. The driver stepped out, holding an umbrella. He was an older man, heavily scarred, wearing a baker's apron over a tailored suit.
“Get in,” the baker said gruffly.
As we climbed into the warm car, Dante’s burner phone rang. The screen displayed a single word.
Carlo.
Dante’s father.
May you like
Dante looked at the screen, then at my swollen stomach. He answered the call and put it on speaker.
“You survived the alley, my son,” Carlo’s raspy, ancient voice echoed in the quiet car. “But you cannot survive the city. Bring me the Bordeaux Ledger, and I will let the girl live.”
