Chapter 5 - THE BLOOD ON THE GLASS
The linoleum floor was freezing against Emily’s cheek.
The air above them snapped and hissed as suppressed bullets tore into the metal lockers, raining sparks and shredded aluminum down like lethal confetti.
They were aiming at her.
“Move!” Alessandro shouted.
He didn't return fire. He grabbed Emily by the collar of her sweater, hauling her violently to her feet, and shoved her behind the thick concrete pillar separating the locker aisles.
A barrage of bullets chewed into the concrete an instant later, sending a spray of sharp dust into Emily’s eyes.
“Why are they shooting at me?!” Emily screamed, covering her head, completely blinded by panic.
“Because you are the only witness to Sofia’s murder!” Alessandro yelled over the gunfire. He pulled his 9mm from his jacket, leaned around the pillar, and fired three rapid shots.
A man at the end of the hall cried out and went down.
“Carmine must have tracked my phone!” Alessandro cursed, ejecting his magazine and slamming a fresh one into the grip. “He knew we were coming here!”
“Mia is outside!” Emily panicked, grabbing his arm. “Dante is in the car with Mia!”
Alessandro’s eyes darkened with a terrifying, primal fear. He grabbed the leather journal from the floor, shoved the velvet box into his pocket, and grabbed Emily’s hand.
“Run for the main doors,” Alessandro commanded. “Do not stop. Do not look back.”
They broke from cover.
Emily ran faster than she ever had in her life. The terminal was in sheer chaos. The few travelers were screaming, diving under plastic benches.
Alessandro ran behind her, providing cover fire. His shots were measured, precise, forcing the tactical team to take cover behind the ticketing counters.
They hit the main glass doors of the terminal, bursting out into the freezing Chicago rain.
The black SUV was still idling at the curb.
“Dante! Open the doors!” Alessandro roared, pulling Emily toward the vehicle.
The rear doors unlocked with a heavy clack.
Emily threw herself into the backseat, sliding across the leather. Mia was huddled in the floorboard, her hands over her ears, crying silently. Emily instantly pulled the little girl into her arms, covering her small body with her own.
Alessandro dove into the back seat a second later, slamming the heavy armored door shut just as a spray of bullets pinged harmlessly off the bulletproof glass.
“Drive!” Alessandro bellowed.
Dante slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The massive SUV fishtailed on the wet pavement, its engine roaring as it tore away from the curb, leaving the terminal and the shooters behind in the rain.
The cabin was silent except for the harsh, ragged breathing of its occupants and the rhythmic thump of the windshield wipers.
Emily sat up slowly, keeping Mia tight against her chest.
She looked over at Alessandro.
He was leaning his head back against the leather headrest, his eyes closed.
But his hand was pressed tightly against his ribs.
Blood was seeping through his fingers, staining his crisp white shirt a dark, horrifying crimson.
“You’re shot,” Emily gasped, her civilian instincts overriding her fear.
Alessandro opened his eyes. He looked down at the blood as if it were a minor inconvenience.
“It’s a graze. Deflected off the door frame.”
“It’s bleeding too fast,” Emily said. She didn't ask for permission. She ripped the bottom hem of her white apron, tearing off a long strip of thick cotton. She leaned across the seat and pressed the fabric hard against his ribs.
Alessandro flinched, his jaw clenching, but he didn't pull away. He looked at her, his dark eyes studying the intense, desperate focus on her face.
For the first time, he saw past the terrified waitress. He saw a survivor.
“Keep the pressure steady,” Alessandro instructed quietly, his hand covering hers. His grip was warm, grounding her in the chaos.
“Boss,” Dante said from the driver’s seat, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror. “We can't go back to the estate. If Carmine ordered this hit, the house is compromised.”
“Take us to the safe house in Pilsen,” Alessandro ordered, wincing slightly. “The one registered under the shell company. Carmine doesn't know about it.”
“Understood.”
They drove through the dark, rain-swept streets for twenty minutes, ensuring they weren't being followed. They pulled into an unmarked, dilapidated garage behind a rundown warehouse in the Pilsen neighborhood.
Inside, the safe house was surprisingly pristine. It was a massive loft, heavily fortified, stocked with weapons, medical supplies, and non-perishable food.
Emily immediately set to work. She helped Alessandro take off his ruined jacket and shirt. He sat on the edge of the leather sofa while she cleaned and bandaged the graze along his ribs.
Mia sat quietly on a barstool a few feet away, watching them. The little girl had stopped crying. She looked exhausted, her eyes heavy with sleep.
“Mommy was bleeding like that,” Mia whispered softly into the quiet room.
Emily froze, the medical tape slipping from her fingers.
She looked at the five-year-old girl.
“What did you say, sweetheart?” Alessandro asked, his voice incredibly gentle as he looked at his daughter.
“When Mommy came into my room to say goodbye,” Mia said, her tiny voice echoing in the large loft. “She had blood on her cheek. And her hands were shaking.”
The reversal hit Emily perfectly.
Sofia hadn't been bleeding because she fell in the alley. She was bleeding before she ever left the house.
“Mia,” Alessandro said, standing up, ignoring the pain in his ribs. He walked over and knelt in front of his daughter. “Who hurt Mommy? Was Grandpa Carmine there?”
Mia shook her head. “Grandpa wasn't there.”
Alessandro frowned. “Then who was it, baby? Who made Mommy bleed?”
Mia looked down at her hands.
“It was the man with the shiny ring.”
Alessandro went completely still.
“What ring?”
“The gold ring with the big black rock,” Mia said innocently. “He hit Mommy in the hallway. Then Mommy ran.”
The air rushed out of Alessandro’s lungs.
Carmine didn't wear a ring.
The only man in the syndicate who wore a custom gold signet ring with a black onyx stone was...
Before Alessandro could turn his head, the heavy steel door of the safe house was violently kicked in.
But it wasn't mafia hitmen pouring through the doorway.
It was a dozen men wearing blue windbreakers with large yellow letters printed across the back.
FBI.
“Hands in the air! Nobody move!” an agent roared, aiming an assault rifle directly at Alessandro.
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A tall, sharp-featured man walked into the loft, flashing a badge.
“Alessandro Moretti,” the man smiled coldly. “I’m Agent Harris. You’re under arrest for the murder of your wife, Sofia Moretti.”
