Chapter 8 - The Race to Newark
The engine of Nico’s black Maserati roared to life in the estate driveway.
I threw myself into the passenger seat, my hands trembling so violently I could barely fasten the seatbelt.
Nico slammed the car into gear, and we tore out of the massive iron gates, tires squealing against the wet asphalt.
“Call him,” Nico ordered, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
I fumbled for my phone and dialed my father’s number.
It rang. And rang. And rang.
“This is Thomas. Leave a message.”
“He’s not answering,” I cried, fresh tears spilling down my cheeks.
“Try again.”
I dialed again. Nothing.
Nico gripped the steering wheel, pushing the sports car well over eighty miles an hour on the dark highway.
“We’ll get there, Sophie,” Nico said, his voice steady and calm, trying to anchor my panic. “It’s a twenty-minute drive. I can do it in twelve.”
I stared out the window at the blurred trees, praying harder than I ever had in my life.
My father.
The man who had raised me alone. The man who had sacrificed his own peace of mind to keep me safe from the mob war he had been dragged into.
“Why didn't he tell me?” I whispered to the windshield.
“Because he’s a good father,” Nico answered quietly. “He carried the burden so you wouldn't have to.”
We hit the city limits of Newark in record time.
Nico navigated the narrow, dimly lit streets with brutal precision, finally slamming the brakes outside my father’s rundown apartment building.
We didn't even wait for the car to fully stop before we threw the doors open.
I ran up the concrete stairs to the second floor, Nico right behind me, his hand resting on the holster beneath his jacket.
We reached apartment 2B.
The door was slightly ajar.
The wood around the deadbolt was splintered.
“Dad!” I screamed, pushing the door open.
The small living room was destroyed.
Chairs were overturned. The coffee table was shattered. Books and papers were scattered across the cheap carpet.
But the room was empty.
“Dad!” I yelled again, running toward the tiny kitchen.
Empty.
I ran toward his bedroom.
Empty.
I fell to my knees in the center of the living room, a sob ripping through my throat.
“They took him,” I cried. “We’re too late.”
Nico stood in the center of the room, his eyes scanning the wreckage with the cold calculation of a man raised in a violent world.
“No,” Nico said softly.
I looked up at him through my tears.
“What?”
Nico pointed to the floor near the overturned sofa.
There were a few drops of fresh blood.
But they didn't lead toward the front door.
They led toward the small hallway closet.
Nico walked over to the closet. He reached out and slowly turned the brass knob.
The door swung open.
Crouched inside, gripping a heavy steel wrench in his right hand, was my father.
He had a nasty cut above his left eye, and his flannel shirt was torn, but he was alive.
“Dad!” I sobbed, scrambling off the floor and throwing my arms around him.
My father dropped the wrench and hugged me tight, burying his face in my shoulder.
“Sophie,” he rasped. “Thank God. Thank God.”
He looked up, over my shoulder.
He saw Nico standing there.
My father froze.
The recognition was instant. The fear in my father’s eyes broke my heart.
“Mr. Santoro,” my father whispered, instinctively pushing me slightly behind him.
Nico didn't look angry. He didn't look like a mafia boss.
He slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, delicate silver bracelet.
He held it out to my father.
“You kept your promise to my mother, Thomas,” Nico said softly. “You kept her daughter safe. And you kept the truth safe.”
My father stared at the bracelet, tears welling in his tired eyes.
“The men who came here tonight,” Nico continued. “Where are they?”
My father gestured toward the fire escape window in the bedroom.
“I hit one with the wrench. They realized they made too much noise and ran. They said Victoria Ashford sent them.”
Nico nodded slowly.
“It’s over, Thomas,” Nico said. “You don't have to hide anymore. The Ashford family is finished. We have the bonds, and we have the journal.”
May you like
My father closed his eyes, a twenty-seven-year sigh of relief escaping his lungs.
“Come with me,” Nico said, offering his hand to my father. “You're both coming home.”
