Chapter 7 - Safe Harbor
The iron gates of the Moretti estate stood twenty feet high, crowned with razor wire and infrared security cameras that swiveled through the torrential downpour. Beyond the stone walls lay forty acres of secluded woods, shielding the century-old limestone mansion from the outside world.
As our Suburban slowed to a halt, the headlights illuminated two black Cadillacs blocking the driveway. Men in raincoats with submachine guns slung beneath their shoulders stood under umbrella covers, surrounding the lead vehicle.
Vincent didn’t wait for Sal to park.
“Stay in the car with Lily,” he commanded, unbuttoning his coat to reveal the matte-black customized Kimber .45 holstered beneath his arm. “Keep your head down.”
“Vincent, don’t start a gunfight in front of her,” I pleaded, pulling Lily into my arms as he shifted her weight to me. She groaned softly, her forehead resting against my collarbone, burning like an open flame.
“I don’t start gunfights on my own driveway, Claire,” he said coldly. “I finish them.”
He stepped out into the pounding rain, the car door shutting behind him with a heavy thud. Through the tinted, rain-streaked window, I watched his silhouette advance toward the Cadillacs. He walked without an umbrella, without hesitation, cutting through the storm like an apex predator stalking through his own territory.
A tall, silver-haired man in a tailored trench coat stepped out of the front passenger side of the lead Cadillac. It was Frank Bellini—Vincent’s consigliere and his late father’s oldest advisor. A man who had survived three syndicate wars through sheer cunning and calculated diplomacy.
Frank raised his hands slightly in a placating gesture, talking rapidly against the howl of the wind. Even from inside the armored vehicle, I could see the terrifying contrast: Frank was gesturing, trying to explain, while Vincent stood motionless, his hands at his sides, head tilted slightly downward.
Suddenly, Vincent took two strides forward, grabbed Frank by the lapels of his thousand-dollar coat, and slammed him violently against the hood of the Cadillac.
Frank’s bodyguards immediately reached for their jackets.
In the next breath, four hidden sniper spotlights on the estate’s watchtowers ignited simultaneously, blinding the men in the driveway. The red laser dots of high-caliber rifles painted the chests of Frank’s security detail.
Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
Vincent leaned in until his nose was an inch from Frank’s ear, speaking words that made the older man’s face drain of all color. Frank nodded frantically, his hands trembling as Vincent shoved him back against the car. Vincent turned on his heel, walked back to our Suburban, and climbed in, shaking the water from his hair.
“Move,” Vincent commanded Sal.
The Cadillacs frantically reversed into the trees, clearing the driveway, and our car surged forward through the iron gates as they ground open.
“What was that?” I demanded, clutching Lily tighter. “Is Frank the leak?”
“Frank claims he heard chatter on the police scanners about a shootout at the Drake,” Vincent said, his jaw rigid. “He claimed he came here to secure the compound before I arrived. He brought six shooters without clearing them through Sal first.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I don’t believe anyone who breathes,” Vincent replied coldly.
We pulled under the massive portico of the mansion. The double mahogany doors flew open instantly. Dr. Evans, a middle-aged physician with tired eyes and graying temples, rushed out alongside two nurses carrying an insulated emergency transport bassinet and a portable IV stand.
“Get her inside! Now!” Dr. Evans ordered, immediately checking Lily’s carotid pulse as Vincent scooped her out of the vehicle.
The grand foyer of the Moretti estate, which I had fled in terror five years ago, had been transformed into an elite triage center. Modern medical monitors beeped in sharp contrast to the antique oil paintings and crystal chandeliers.
They laid Lily on a sterile examination gurney in the converted east parlor. Dr. Evans immediately hooked her up to a cardiac monitor. The harsh, rapid beep filled the room—148 beats per minute.
“Her hemoglobin is under five,” Dr. Evans said grimly, shining a penlight into Lily’s eyes. “Her spleen is enlarged. We need to begin transfusing packed red cells immediately to stabilize her before we even think about bone marrow extraction.”
“Take mine,” Vincent said instantly, tearing off his wet dress shirt. He threw it on the floor, sitting down on a metal chair beside the gurney. His muscular torso was crisscrossed with scars, but his eyes never wavered from Lily’s face. “Whatever she needs. Take it now.”
“Mr. Moretti, we need to run a rapid HLA-typing panel and infectious disease screen first,” Dr. Evans warned, swabbing Vincent’s inner arm with iodine. “Even if you’re her father, a marrow harvest requires anesthesia and—”
“Run the tests,” Vincent snapped, not even flinching as the heavy needle pierced his vein, drawing dark vials of his blood. “If I’m a match, you start the harvest tonight. If you waste a second of her time, Evans, you won’t leave this house alive.”
“Vincent, stop threatening the doctor!” I shouted, placing myself between him and the medical team. “Let them do their jobs!”
Vincent stared at me, his chest heaving, the drawn blood filling the third plastic vial. For the first time since I had landed at O’Hare, I saw the raw terror lurking beneath his monstrous exterior.
He wasn’t afraid of rival syndicates. He wasn’t afraid of a mole in his family.
He was terrified that his blood wouldn’t be good enough to save his daughter.
Before Dr. Evans could leave for the makeshift lab, Sal appeared in the doorway, his phone pressed to his ear. His expression was grim as death.
“Boss,” Sal whispered, keeping his distance from the gurney. “The cyber team just tracked the burner phone that tipped off Nikolai Tarasov.”
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Vincent stood up, pressing the cotton ball to the crook of his arm. “Who does it belong to?”
“It doesn’t belong to Frank, Boss,” Sal said quietly. “The phone was purchased three days ago using an encrypted credit line registered to Marco Moretti’s private shipping account.”
