His shadow stretched across the broken glass.
He stepped into the dark corridor of the apartment.
The first gunman rounded the corner near the kitchen.
His flashlight beam cut through the darkness.
It illuminated Dante’s eyes.
The gunman froze for a fraction of a second.
That was all Dante needed.
Dante fired three rapid rounds.
The gunman dropped against the refrigerator, his weapon clattering across the tile.
The second man fired blindly down the hallway.
Bullets tore through the drywall, showering white plaster over Dante’s shoulders.
Dante dropped low.
He slid along the hardwood, rounding the kitchen island.
He came up beneath the shooter’s guard.
Dante’s left hand seized the barrel of the rifle, forcing it upward into the ceiling.
His right hand drove the butt of his pistol into the man’s jaw.
Bone cracked.
The man stumbled back.
Dante fired once through his sternum.
Silence crashed back over the apartment.
Smoke drifted through the narrow rooms.
Dante checked the magazines on the fallen weapons.
He took two spare clips and stepped back into the bedroom.
Gemma was slumped against the wardrobe.
Her face was translucent.
The folder was still pinned under her forearm.
Dante bent down.
He slid his arms beneath her knees and back.
He lifted her against his chest.
She weighed almost nothing.
Her head fell against his shoulder, her breath shallow against his neck.
“The file…” she mumbled.
“I have it,” Dante said.
He kicked the dead assassin aside at the window.
The fire escape led to the rear alley.
Below, headlights flooded the wet brick walls.
Three black armored Suburbans roared into the narrow lane, tires throwing water against the dumpsters.
Enzo leapt from the lead vehicle, an assault rifle raised.
Behind him, six Lombardi soldiers fanned out with tactical shields.
Enzo looked up and saw Dante on the fire escape with Gemma in his arms.
Enzo’s eyes widened.
“Cover the roof!” Enzo shouted to his men.
Dante carried Gemma down the iron stairs.
The cold rain soaked through his shirt.
Gemma’s blood spread warm against his chest.
Enzo met him at the bottom of the ladder.
“Falcone’s men hit our perimeter checkpoint on Storrow Drive,” Enzo reported rapidly.
“They knew we were moving.”
Dante stepped into the rear of the armored Suburban.
He laid Gemma across the leather seat.
He climbed in beside her, pulling her head into his lap.
“Call Dr. Rossi to the penthouse,” Dante ordered.
“Tell him if she dies, I burn Boston to the bedrock.”
Enzo slammed the heavy door shut.
The convoy accelerated into the storm.
Dante looked down at Gemma’s pale face.
He took her cold, blood-stained hand in his.
“You’re safe now,” he whispered against her temple.
“I’m going to make them pay for every drop.”
The penthouse atop the Lombardi Tower was locked down like a bunker.
Steel blast shutters sealed the panoramic glass windows.
Armed guards stood every ten paces along the private corridors.
In the master suite, surgical lamps bathed the bed in harsh, sterile white light.
Dr. Rossi pulled the final suture tight.
He snipped the thread with stainless steel scissors.
The tray beside him was filled with red gauze and silver clamps.
“The blade missed her liver by less than an inch,” Rossi said, peeling off his rubber gloves.
He wiped sweat from his forehead.
“She lost blood. Significant blood.”
“Will she recover?” Dante asked.
He stood at the foot of the bed.
He had not washed the blood from his hands.
He had not changed his ruined shirt.
“She’s young. She’s strong,” Rossi replied cautiously.
“She needs forty-eight hours of absolute quiet.”
“She stays here,” Dante said.
Rossi nodded, packed his instruments, and stepped out under the watchful eye of two guards.
The room fell quiet.
Only the rhythmic beep of the cardiac monitor filled the space.
Gemma lay among the dark linen sheets.
Her dark curls were spread across the pillows.
Her skin was pale, but her breathing had steadied.
Dante walked to the bedside table.
He picked up the leather-bound Falcone folder.
He sat in the armchair beside her.
He opened it.
The contents were monstrous.
Wire transfers dating back four years.
Payments to harbor inspectors.
Transcripts of encrypted calls between Salvatore Falcone and crooked port captains.
And the autopsy photograph of Leo.
Beneath the photo lay a handwritten letter in Bianca Falcone’s elegant script.
A letter to her father.
Dante read the words.
Leo Lombardi was too curious about the southern berths.
The poison looked like salt water in his lungs.
Dante suspects nothing.
Once the ring is on his finger, we take the northern terminals.
He will be dead within a year of the wedding.
Dante’s fingers crushed the paper.
A vein throbbed violently at his temple.
For three years, he had carried the guilt of Leo’s death.
