Chapter 7 - The Safehouse on the Hudson
The safehouse was a converted brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, hidden behind an unassuming brick facade that overlooked the grey, churning waters of the East River.
Inside, the rooms were quiet, sterile, and heavily fortified. Bulletproof window laminate, encrypted communication arrays, and a perimeter monitored by four of my most trusted men formed an invisible iron cage around us.
Sophie had finally fallen asleep upstairs on a sprawling leather sofa, wrapped in a heavy cashmere blanket, her red sketchbook clutched securely against her chest.
Downstairs in the dimly lit study, the atmosphere was thick with tension.
Camille stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the distant lights of Manhattan across the water. A glass of scotch sat untouched on the mahogany desk behind her. She had cleaned the glass splinters out of her jacket, but the phantom residue of the attack still clung to the sharp angles of her posture.
I poured myself a finger of bourbon, keeping my distance, giving her space to process a reality she had tried to flee for six years.
“You lied to me,” Camille said quietly, her back still turned toward me. Her voice was ice. “You told me your father’s war was over. You told me the bloodline was secure.”
“It was,” I replied, my tone flat, dangerous. “Or so I believed. When my father died, I dismantled his network, restructured the holdings into legitimate shipping and real estate portfolios, and executed every capo who opposed the transition. For six years, nobody has challenged my authority in the Tri-State area.”
“Then who were those men?” She turned around sharply, her eyes flashing with a desperate, furious energy. “They weren't random thugs, Alessandro. They walked into that diner like they had a GPS tracker sewn into your jacket.”
I set my glass down on the desk. That was the exact question that had been eating a hole through my stomach since the first bullet shattered the window.
“They had a tactical profile,” I admitted, leaning my hips against the edge of the desk. “Professionals. Ex-military, most likely. Which means they either acquired our flight manifest through a corrupted customs channel at JFK... or someone inside my own inner circle sold our location.”
Camille crossed her arms, letting out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Oh, brilliant. So not only am I dragged back into the middle of a mafia war I spent half a decade running away from, but your own house is rotting from the inside out.”
“My house is secure,” I corrected, my voice dropping an octave into a cold, absolute authority. “And as of right now, your security is tied directly to mine. You cannot step outside these doors, Camille. You cannot go to your gallery meeting tomorrow, and you cannot return to your apartment in Queens.”
“That apartment has all my paintings, Alessandro! That gallery meeting is the only chance I have to pay rent for the next three months!”
“Your paintings can be replaced. Your rent is paid in full starting today,” I countered, stepping closer to her. “If you walk out those front doors right now, Calder’s cleaners—or whatever faction is left of my father’s old rivals—will snatch you and Sophie off the street before you reach the corner. You think they won't use her to get to me? You think they care that she’s six years old?”
The words hit her like a physical blow. The fight drained out of her shoulders, leaving only a hollow, exhausted terror. She looked away, her lower lip trembling slightly before she forced it back under control.
“You destroyed my life six years ago,” she whispered, her voice cracking with suppressed grief. “And now you’ve brought death right to my daughter’s doorstep.”
Before I could answer, my encrypted satellite phone vibrated sharply against the holster on the desk.
I picked it up, flipped the cover, and pressed it to my ear.
“Report,” I said.
May you like
Marco’s voice came through the speaker, tight and urgent. “Boss, we ran facial recognition and ballistics on the two dead men from the diner. They weren't working for Calder. They were carrying biometric identification tags belonging to the private security detail of your uncle, Viktor Vitali.”
My blood turned to absolute ice.
