Chapter 5 - The Line in the Sand
By seven o'clock that evening, the mansion felt like a mausoleum.
The rain had returned, drumming against the heavy leaded-glass windows of the study with a relentless, rhythmic violence. I sat behind my father's desk, wearing a fresh shirt, but my skin was cold and clammy. Every nerve ending from my lower ribs to my toes felt like it had been dipped in kerosene and set alight. The synthetic compounds were leaving my bloodstream, and the rebound effect was brutal.
My hands shook so hard I couldn't hold a pen.
Fay was in the corner of the room. She hadn't left the house. She had spent the last three hours preparing hot salt compresses, boiling water, and forcing me to drink bitter tea laced with ginger and honey.
"Carmine's car just pulled up the driveway," she said, parting the velvet curtains by an inch to look out over the front courtyard. "He brought five men. None of them are carrying regular holsters. They have shotguns in long coats."
"He's not coming to talk," I said, my teeth chattering slightly as a chill raced up my spine. "He knows Tico is missing. Luca wouldn't have been able to grab him without someone noticing the garage was empty."
Fay let the curtain fall. She turned to face me. "There’s an iron door behind the service lift that leads to the old wine cellar. The cellar has an exterior storm hatch that opens into the woods behind the property."
"I know the layout of my house, Fay."
"Then you know you can get out," she said urgently, walking over to the desk. "If they come in here with shotguns, you can't fight them from that chair. You don't have your guards. You told them to go to the docks."
"I sent the compromised guards to the docks so they wouldn't be inside the house when the shooting started," I said, pulling open the center drawer of the desk.
Inside lay a black Colt .45 semi-automatic, fully loaded, with two extra magazines resting beside it.
I picked up the weapon. The cold steel felt heavy and steady against my trembling palm. I checked the chamber, let the slide snap forward with a sharp, oily click, and laid the gun flat on the desk, covering it with a sheaf of port manifests.
"This is my house," I told her, looking her directly in the eyes. "My father took this ground with blood, and I held it with blood. If Carmine wants to take it, he's going to have to do it across this desk."
Fay stared at the gun, then at my hands, which had suddenly stopped shaking the moment my fingers touched the grip.
"You're out of your mind," she whispered.
"Probably," I said. "Now go to the cellar. Take the storm hatch. Walk through the woods to the secondary gate on Route 9. There’s a black sedan parked behind the utility shed; the keys are under the driver’s sun visor. Take it and drive until you run out of gas."
She didn't move.
"Fay," I barked, the old command roaring back into my voice. "Move!"
The heavy double doors of the study flew open before she could take a step.
Carmine walked in. He wasn't pretending anymore. He was wearing a heavy leather jacket, unzipped, showing the tactical harness beneath. In his right hand, he carried a short-barreled Remington 12-gauge shotgun, pointed loosely toward the Persian rug.
Behind him, Rocco and Johnny filled the doorway, their hands inside their jackets.
"You should've stayed upstairs, Dominic," Carmine said, his voice flat, devoid of the deference he had faked for ten years. "It would've been cleaner. Mercer had a certificate ready. Respiratory failure due to complications from spinal trauma. Very neat. Very dignified."
"Where's Mercer?" I asked, keeping my hands resting casually on top of the shipping papers.
Carmine smiled, an ugly, jagged thing. "Mercer’s currently packing his bags for Costa Rica. He knows how to read the wind. You should've learned that six months ago, Boss. A cripple can't run three ports and sixty million dollars in contraband. The commission gave me the green light at four o'clock."
"The commission doesn't have the authority to reassign my territory," I said.
"They do when Sal Leone and the Maroni family agree with them," Carmine said, taking two slow steps into the room. He glanced sideways at Fay, his eyes narrowing. "I told you to get rid of the maid, Dominic. Now she’s just collateral damage."
He raised the barrel of the shotgun, pointing it directly at Fay's chest.
"Step away from the desk, girl," Carmine ordered.
Fay didn't run. She didn't scream. She took half a step backward, her back pressing against the heavy wooden bookshelf, but her eyes never left Carmine’s face.
"You're a coward," she said, her voice clear and completely steady. "You waited until he couldn't walk before you had the guts to look him in the eye."
Carmine's face darkened with sudden rage. "Shut your mouth, you little gutter—"
I didn't let him finish the sentence.
I swept my right hand across the desk, clearing the manifests, grabbed the Colt .45, and fired two rounds straight through the center of Carmine’s chest before he could pull the shotgun’s trigger.
The sound in the enclosed study was deafening.
Carmine’s body slammed backward against the doorframe, the shotgun firing wildly into the ceiling, raining plaster and splintered wood across the floor. Rocco and Johnny drew their weapons, but I was already firing through the smoke, driving three heavy .45-caliber slugs into Rocco’s shoulder and chest, dropping him like a sack of cement.
Johnny ducked behind the mahogany doorframe, firing two blind shots back into the room.
A bullet tore through the desk lamp three inches from my head, showering me in shattered glass. Another ripped through the leather upholstery of my chair.
I fired my last round into the hallway wall, forcing Johnny back, and the slide locked open with a dry, hollow metallic click.
Empty.
My extra magazines were sitting on the far corner of the desk, three feet out of my reach.
Outside in the hallway, the sound of Johnny racking the slide of his Glock echoed with terrifying clarity.
"You're dead, Dominic!" Johnny screamed from behind the wall. "You're dead in that fucking chair!"
I strained forward, reaching for the magazine, but my paralyzed lower body was dead weight, pinning me to the chair. I couldn't reach it.
Then Fay moved.
May you like
She didn't run for the cellar. She threw herself across the desk, her hand sweeping the black steel magazine off the mahogany surface, and dropped to her knees beside my wheels just as Johnny rounded the corner with his weapon raised.
***
