Chapter 6 - THE BUNKER BENEATH THE ASH
The world turned into a roaring inferno.
The concussive shockwave from the C4 explosion picked me up and threw me through the air like a ragdoll. The sound was a physical blow, rupturing the air and shattering the silence of the shipyard.
But the blast didn't hit me directly.
Before the detonator had even clicked, Marco, anticipating a double-cross the moment Don Salvatore appeared, had tackled me and Lily violently into the deep, muddy trench of a drydock a few feet away.
The wave of fire and shrapnel tore over our heads, scorching the air above the trench.
My ears were ringing a high-pitched, agonizing whine. Dirt and debris rained down on us. I couldn't see, couldn't breathe through the thick, acrid smoke of burning plastic and metal.
“Lily!” I screamed, my voice sounding distant and muffled in my own ears. I frantically felt around in the mud until I grabbed her small, trembling shoulders.
“Mommy,” she cried, burying her face into my chest, coughing violently.
“I’ve got you,” I gasped, holding her impossibly tight.
I looked up through the smoke. The three black SUVs were twisted, burning wrecks. The asphalt was cratered, radiating intense heat.
“Luca!” Marco yelled, pushing himself out of the mud, his face bleeding from a deep gash on his forehead.
He scrambled up the edge of the trench, his sniper rifle abandoned, pulling a sidearm from his holster.
I hauled Lily up the slick mud, my heart hammering a frantic, terrified rhythm.
If Don Salvatore had detonated the bag... Luca had been standing less than twenty feet away.
When we crested the trench, the scene was absolute devastation.
Marcus Bellini’s body was gone, vaporized or thrown into the dark waters of the harbor. Arthur Vance was nowhere to be seen.
And standing in the center of the flaming wreckage, remarkably untouched, was Don Salvatore. His umbrella was gone, his gray suit covered in soot, but he was smiling.
Standing behind him, shielded by the blast, was Vanessa.
“Where is he?” Marco roared, aiming his pistol squarely at Salvatore’s chest.
“Lower the weapon, Marco,” Salvatore said calmly, brushing ash from his lapel. “Your boss is dead. The Moretti family is finished. Swear loyalty to me, and you live to see sunrise.”
“I’ll kill you,” Marco snarled, stepping forward.
“Look down, Marco,” a weak, raspy voice coughed from the shadows.
I snapped my head toward the sound.
Ten yards away, pinned beneath the heavy, twisted steel door of one of the destroyed SUVs, was Luca.
He was alive, but barely. His tailored suit was torn and burned, his face covered in blood. He had miraculously managed to dive behind the vehicle just as the bomb went off, but the force of the blast had blown the heavy steel door entirely off its hinges, crushing his lower half.
“Luca!” I screamed, running toward him, leaving Lily safely behind the lip of the trench.
I dropped to my knees in the burning debris and grabbed the edge of the steel door, pulling with all my strength. It didn't budge an inch. It weighed hundreds of pounds.
“Marco, help me!” I cried.
Marco sprinted over, shoving his gun into his waistband, and grabbed the door. We both strained, muscles screaming, but the metal was wedged beneath a piece of the ruined chassis.
Luca groaned, grabbing my wrist with a trembling, bloodied hand.
“Stop, Claire,” Luca coughed, blood trickling from his lips. “You can't lift it.”
“I’m not leaving you here!” I sobbed, frantically clawing at the dirt beneath his pinned legs.
Don Salvatore walked slowly toward us, his shoes crunching on the broken glass. Vanessa followed closely behind, a look of smug, vindictive triumph on her face.
“How poetic,” Salvatore mocked, looking down at Luca. “The great Luca Moretti, crushed under the weight of his own ambition. Just like your father.”
“My father died of a heart attack,” Luca spat, glaring up at the older man.
Salvatore laughed, a dry, humorless sound.
“Your father died because I poisoned his scotch, Luca,” Salvatore revealed casually. “He refused to share the shipping ports with the Commission. He thought he was untouchable. So I removed him. And I would have removed you years ago, if Vanessa hadn't proven to be such a useful asset inside your house.”
Vanessa crossed her arms, looking at me with absolute disdain.
“I didn't steal three million dollars to pay a debt, Claire,” Vanessa sneered. “I stole it as a buy-in. I paid Don Salvatore to guarantee my place at the head of the Commission once Luca was out of the picture. I was never going to marry him. I was going to inherit his empire.”
My blood ran cold. She had orchestrated this entire nightmare for greed. Pure, unadulterated greed.
“You’re a monster,” I whispered, staring at her.
“I’m a survivor,” Vanessa corrected coldly.
Salvatore drew a silver, pearl-handled pistol from his jacket.
“Enough talking,” Salvatore said. “The Commission requires a clean slate.”
He aimed the gun directly at Luca’s head.
“Marco,” Luca gasped, his eyes wide and urgent. “Take Claire and Lily. The tunnels. Go.”
“I’m not leaving you, Boss!” Marco yelled, drawing his own weapon.
Before either man could pull the trigger, the deafening blare of a ship’s horn erupted from the harbor directly behind us.
Everyone froze.
A massive, rusted cargo freighter had silently drifted into the shipyard docks during the chaos. The deck was completely dark, save for a single, blinding searchlight that suddenly clicked on, illuminating the entire shipyard in a harsh, white glare.
Salvatore shielded his eyes, cursing violently.
“Who is that?!” Salvatore yelled to the empty darkness.
The heavy thud of a ramp dropping onto the concrete dock echoed loudly.
A figure walked down the ramp into the blinding light.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a worn leather jacket. He walked with a slight limp, carrying a heavy pump-action shotgun resting casually on his shoulder.
As he stepped out of the glare of the searchlight, my heart completely stopped in my chest.
My breath caught in my throat. I couldn't speak. I couldn't move.
The man stopped twenty feet away. He racked the shotgun with a loud, metallic clack.
“Step away from my wife,” the man said, his voice deep, familiar, and filled with lethal intent.
I stared at the face I hadn't seen in three years. The face I had buried. The face that had just been crossed out in red marker on a kidnapped photo.
“Michael?” I whispered, the world spinning around me.
May you like
My husband, Michael Hayes, was standing in front of me.
Alive.
