Chapter 7 - THE STRIKE
The heavy front doors slammed shut, plunging the foyer into a horrifying silence broken only by the sound of the rain outside and Nicholas’s heavy breathing.
“Leo!” I screamed, scrambling toward the door, my shoulder throbbing in agony from the rifle blow.
Nicholas caught my ankle with his good hand, stopping me.
“Don't,” he gritted out, his face pale and sweating. “They’ll shoot you on the porch.”
Margaret dropped to her knees beside her son, frantically pressing her lavender cardigan against his bleeding shoulder. Her hands were covered in his blood, but her face was completely devoid of panic. She moved with the terrifying calmness of a woman who had spent fifty years married to the mob.
“It’s a through-and-through,” Margaret said, her voice steady. “Missed the artery. You need a doctor, Nicky.”
“No time,” Nicholas growled, pushing himself up the wall until he was standing. He looked at me, his dark eyes burning with a lethal fire. “Grab the box.”
I scrambled back and picked up the carved wooden music box. It was surprisingly heavy.
“How do we open it?” Nicholas asked, gripping his shoulder.
“I don't know,” I cried, turning the box over in my hands. “My dad made these puzzle boxes all the time. You have to slide the panels in a specific order, or the internal locking mechanism jams permanently.”
Nicholas swore under his breath. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number.
“We need cars at the estate. Now. Bring the heavy artillery. Vincent took the boy to the shipyard.”
He hung up and looked at me.
“Can you open it, Anna?”
“I need time!” I pleaded. “I haven't seen one of these since I was a teenager!”
Nicholas grabbed his suit jacket from the floor and awkwardly draped it over his bleeding shoulder.
“You have ten minutes. That’s how long it takes to get to the shipyard.”
“You can’t go,” Margaret said firmly, standing up. “You’re bleeding to death.”
“He’s my blood, Mama,” Nicholas said softly, touching her cheek. “And Henry gave his word to protect him. I won’t break my father’s vow.”
He turned and walked toward the back of the house. I followed him, clutching the wooden box to my chest.
We entered a private garage where three massive black SUVs were already waiting, engines rumbling. Several heavily armed men were loading weapons into the trunks.
Nicholas opened the passenger door of the lead car for me.
“Get in. Work on the box.”
I slid into the leather seat, my hands shaking so violently I dropped the box twice before resting it on my lap. Nicholas climbed into the driver’s seat, ignoring the protests of his men who wanted to drive him.
He slammed his foot on the gas, and we tore out of the estate, speeding down the wet, slick roads toward the Brooklyn waterfront.
I stared at the box.
Think, Anna. Think.
My father always built his puzzle boxes around a theme. A memory. Something important.
I traced the carvings on the top. They were delicate vines, wrapping around a small bird.
The tape. The lullaby.
“Yellow bird,” I whispered to myself.
I pressed my thumb against the bird’s beak. It slid downward with a soft click.
My heart leaped.
I remembered the lyrics of the lullaby. Yellow bird, up high in banana tree.
I searched the sides of the box. There was a carving of a tree. I pressed the top branch, sliding it to the right.
Click.
Nicholas glanced at me, his face pale from blood loss. “You have it?”
“Almost.”
I slid two more panels based on the song. The final step was always a twist of the base.
I gripped the bottom of the box and twisted.
A loud pop echoed in the quiet car. The top of the box sprang open on a hidden hinge.
Inside, resting on a bed of faded red velvet, was a small, leather-bound notebook.
I pulled it out and opened it. The pages were filled with my father’s neat, meticulous handwriting. Columns of numbers, dates, names, and offshore bank accounts. It was everything. Every bribe Vincent had paid, every hit he had ordered, every dollar he had stolen from the other Mafia bosses.
“I have it,” I breathed, staring at the ultimate proof of my father’s bravery.
Nicholas gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white.
“Good. Now we trade it for your nephew.”
We pulled up to the abandoned shipyard. The rain was coming down in sheets, illuminated by the headlights of Vincent’s parked cars near the edge of the pier.
Nicholas stepped out of the SUV, pulling a heavy black handgun from his waistband.
“Stay in the car, Anna.”
“No,” I said, opening my door and stepping into the freezing rain, clutching the ledger. “He’s my nephew. My blood. I’m coming.”
Nicholas looked at me for a long second, seeing the same stubborn defiance my father had possessed. He nodded once.
We walked through the rusted gates of the shipyard.
Standing at the edge of the pier, dangerously close to the churning, freezing black water, was Uncle Vincent. David stood beside him, holding a terrifyingly small Leo by the back of his jacket.
“Bring it here, Nicky!” Vincent yelled over the sound of the rain.
Nicholas stopped twenty feet away, raising his gun and aiming it directly at David’s head.
“Let the boy go, Vincent.”
“The book first!” Vincent demanded, tapping his cane aggressively.
I stepped out from behind Nicholas, holding the leather notebook high in the air so they could see it.
David laughed, a manic, desperate sound.
“Look at her,” David mocked, his eyes wide. “Thinking she’s a hero. You don't know the truth, do you, Anna?”
I gripped the book tighter. “The truth is you murdered my father!”
“I pulled the trigger,” David shouted back, grinning maliciously. “But I didn't give the order! Ask your precious Nicholas who signed your father’s death warrant!”
I froze, the freezing rain soaking into my clothes.
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David pointed his silver pistol at Nicholas.
“Tell her, Nicky! Tell her who told me to run Thomas Russo off the road! It wasn't Vincent! It was Henry! Henry Romano ordered the hit on your father!”
