Chapter 4 - Sins of the East Harbor
"My father," I choked out, the room spinning around me as sheer panic obliterated the last remnants of my composure.
"He’s alone in our tenement on Fourth Street! He can barely walk across the room without his oxygen concentrator!"
I turned to sprint toward the front doors, but Dante’s hand caught my wrist like an iron shackle, halting me in my tracks.
"You run out that door alone, Eleanor, and you won't survive past the harbor boulevard," Dante said, his grip unyielding yet strangely careful.
"Moretti has spotters stationed at every intersection between here and the industrial district."
"Let me go!" I screamed, thrashing against his grip with all the strength of a girl who had fought dock bullies her whole childhood.
"I don't care about your mafia war! I care about my father! He has nothing to do with your filthy empire!"
"Your father has everything to do with it," Dante replied, pulling me firmly toward the restaurant’s private rear exit.
Lorenzo kicked open the emergency door, revealing a heavy, armored black Maybach idling in the dark, rain-soaked alleyway.
The rain fell in sheets, washing the grease and soot of the city into the gutters as Dante shoved me into the leather backseat.
He slid in beside me, slamming the door shut with a heavy, vacuum-sealed thud that blocked out the howling storm outside.
Lorenzo threw the sedan into gear, the armored tires screeching against wet asphalt as we rocketed down the narrow alley into traffic.
"Tell me what you meant back there," I demanded, pressing myself against the far door, breathing hard against the leather upholstery.
"How do you know my father? How do you know Thomas Vance?"
Dante reached into the interior compartment of the vehicle, retrieving a dry silk handkerchief to wipe the rain from his dark brow.
"Fifteen years ago, the East Harbor was not divided by street gangs and drug runners," Dante began, staring out into the rain.
"My father, Antonio Russo, controlled the commercial docks, and he ran them with strict discipline and fair maritime contracts."
"The chief logistics auditor at the central port authority was an incorruptible man named Thomas Vance."
I stared at him, the childhood memories rushing back into my mind like cold, rushing water.
I remembered my father coming home late with thick leather ledgers, his knuckles bruised, muttering about missing shipping manifests.
"Your father discovered that Salvatore Moretti was smuggling military-grade weapons through the Russo commercial docks," Dante continued.
"Moretti offered your father half a million dollars in bearer bonds to alter the customs logs and sign off on the cargo."
"Thomas Vance refused."
Dante turned his head, his obsidian eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the small car feel suffocatingly small.
"Because your father had honor, Moretti framed him for embezzlement, destroyed his pension, and blacklisted him from every port on the coast."
"And that very same night, Moretti planted a car bomb outside the harbor yacht club and murdered my father."
The words hit me like physical blows, knocking the air from my chest and leaving me dizzy with a profound, sickening grief.
All those years of poverty, all those years of watching my father cough up blood while counting pennies for cheap generic inhalers.
We had lived in squalor not because of bad luck or illness, but because of a calculated strike by ruthless, powerful criminals.
"My mother died working two shifts at a laundry trying to pay the legal fees to keep my father out of prison," I whispered, tears burning my eyes.
"I know," Dante murmured, his voice softening into something resembling genuine remorse.
"When my father died, the syndicate fractured, and I spent ten years clawing my way back from exile to reclaim the waterfront."
"I searched for your father for five years, Eleanor."
"I wanted to clear his name and repay the debt my family owed to the man who tried to warn my father before the bomb went off."
"By the time my investigators found his trail, he had vanished into the slums of Fourth Street under a medical alias."
"And tonight, the moment you walked up to my table, I saw your mother’s eyes staring right through me."
A sudden crack of thunder shook the heavy frame of the Maybach, followed instantly by the shrill squawk of the dashboard radio.
Silvio’s panicked voice crackled through the encrypted speaker system, laced with the sharp, popping static of gunfire.
"Boss! We’ve got a major problem on Fourth Street!" Silvio shouted over the radio, engine revving in the background.
"Two black SUVs just breached the alley behind the tenement complex!"
"They’ve got heavy weapons, and they’re moving up the fire escape toward apartment four-B right now!"
My heart shattered into a million frantic pieces, my fingernails digging into Dante’s tailored sleeve with desperate terror.
"No!" I screamed, grabbing his lapels, looking directly into the cold eyes of the most dangerous man in the city.
"Please! Dante, please! They’re going to kill him!"
Dante grabbed my hands, holding them firmly against his chest, feeling the wild, rabbit-like beat of my terror.
"Lorenzo, floor it," Dante commanded, his voice cold, merciless, and terrifyingly steady.
May you like
"Run every light between here and the bridge, and take the safety off your rifle."
"Nobody touches Thomas Vance while I still draw breath."
