Chapter 6 - THE CHILD’S DRAWING IN THE DRY DOCK
The silence in the warehouse was heavier than the freezing rain pounding against the metal roof.
Luca stared at my mother, his dark eyes entirely hollow.
“Thomas saved my life fourteen years ago,” Luca said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “He took a bullet for me.”
“He took a bullet for you because he felt guilty,” my mother replied, refusing to back down. “Thomas killed your father on the orders of a rival boss. But when that same boss tried to assassinate you three weeks later, Thomas couldn’t let another Moretti die. He broke rank, saved you, and spent the rest of his life protecting you to pay off his blood debt.”
Noah squeezed my hand. The little boy didn’t fully understand the mafia politics, but he understood that his father was being called a murderer.
“You’re lying,” Noah cried, stepping forward. “Daddy is good!”
Luca knelt down, ignoring my mother completely. He placed both hands on Noah’s small shoulders.
“Your daddy is a good man, Noah,” Luca said firmly, locking eyes with the terrified child. “People make mistakes. But Thomas has protected me every day since. And I am going to bring him home.”
Luca stood up and turned to my mother.
“You’re staying here,” he ordered.
“You can’t go to the shipyard,” my mother warned, true fear finally bleeding into her voice. “Adrian has thirty armed men there. He’s executing Thomas at midnight. You’re walking into a slaughterhouse.”
“Then I suggest you pray for me,” Luca said coldly.
He grabbed the discarded shotgun from the floor, checked the ammunition, and slung it over his shoulder.
“Sophie,” Luca said, turning to me. “Take the van keys. Lock yourselves in the office upstairs. Do not open the door for anyone except me or Thomas.”
“I’m coming with you,” I said.
“No, you are not.”
“He’s my father too!” Noah suddenly shouted, tears streaming down his face. “I have to go!”
“It’s a warzone, Sophie,” Luca warned, stepping closer to me. “If you come, I can’t guarantee your safety.”
“If we stay here with her,” I said, glaring at my mother, “I can’t guarantee it either.”
Luca looked at me, seeing the absolute determination in my eyes. He gave a single, curt nod.
We left my mother in the dark warehouse and stole a rusted pickup truck parked behind the building.
The drive to the old Bellini shipyard took twenty agonizing minutes.
The shipyard was a sprawling, decaying maze of dry docks, rusted cranes, and shipping containers. The rain had turned the ground into a treacherous mud slick.
We parked a quarter-mile away and approached on foot, sticking to the shadows of the massive steel containers.
Up ahead, a large, glass-fronted harbor master’s office sat elevated on steel pylons. Armed men patrolled the catwalks beneath it.
“Thomas is in there,” Luca whispered, peering through the scope of the shotgun.
“How do we get past them?” I asked, holding Noah tightly against my side.
“We don’t,” Luca said. “I do. You wait here.”
Before I could argue, a blinding spotlight snapped on from the catwalk, pinning us in a harsh circle of white light.
“Put the weapons down, Luca!” a voice boomed over a loudspeaker.
We were surrounded. A dozen men with rifles stepped out from behind the shipping containers, their weapons trained directly on us.
Adrian Vale walked out onto the catwalk of the elevated office. He looked down at us, smiling.
“I told you he was predictable,” Adrian said over the loudspeaker. “Bring them up.”
The guards confiscated Luca’s weapons and marched us up the metal stairs into the harbor master’s office.
The room was vast, filled with nautical charts and rusted machinery.
Bound to a heavy steel chair in the center of the room was Thomas Reed.
His face was bruised and bloodied, but when he saw Noah, his eyes widened in absolute terror.
“Noah!” Thomas choked out, struggling against the zip-ties cutting into his wrists. “Adrian, you promised you wouldn’t touch him!”
“I didn’t touch him, Thomas,” Adrian said, stepping down from a raised platform. “Luca brought him to me. Such a loyal boss.”
Adrian walked over to a heavy wooden desk and picked up a piece of paper.
“Do you know what this is, Luca?” Adrian asked, holding it up.
It was a child’s drawing. Crayon on construction paper.
“I drew this when I was six years old,” Adrian said, his voice losing its playful edge. “It’s a picture of me and Thomas. Because Thomas was the only father I ever knew.”
Adrian walked over to Thomas and violently grabbed him by the hair, forcing his head back.
“And three days ago, I found out the man who raised me is the man who blew my real father to pieces.”
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Adrian pulled a silver pistol from his waistband and pressed it against Thomas’s temple.
“Any last words, Thomas? Before your son watches you die?”
