Chapter 6 - The Road to Westchester
The Saw Mill River Parkway was an endless ribbon of black ice and blinding gray rain.
The windshield wipers of Marco’s sedan beat a frantic, rhythmic scream against the frosted glass.
I kept both hands clamped to the steering wheel until the tendons in my wrists throbbed with fire.
The dashboard clock glowed a pale, ghostly green, marking the minutes past two in the morning.
Every mile that slipped beneath the spinning radial tires felt like a second stolen from Donna Elena’s life.
My bare feet, swollen and cut from the glass of Manhattan, hovered over the accelerator and the brake pedals.
The heavy snub-nosed revolver rested on the passenger seat beside the two brass speed-loaders Lorenzo had provided.
The cold steel reflected the occasional glare of oncoming halogen headlights.
I knew the layout of the Westchester estate better than Salvatore’s hired thugs ever could.
Dominic had brought me there during the first summer after our wedding ceremony in Little Italy.
He had walked me through the centuries-old gardens, pointing out the stone retaining walls his grandfather had built with bare hands.
He had shown me the underground pump house hidden beneath the ivy near the equestrian stables.
He had revealed the hidden breaker panels designed to cut power to the east wing in case of an armed siege.
Dominic had shared those secrets because he believed I was the fortress of his heart.
Three hours ago, that same man had declared me an outcast without granting me three minutes to speak.
The betrayal sat inside my chest like a jagged fragment of shrapnel.
Yet I did not have the luxury of weeping or nursing my broken pride.
If Donna Elena died tonight, Dominic’s soul would be buried in the exact same grave.
Salvatore would control the entire syndicate, and Dominic would become nothing more than a hollow ghost haunting Manhattan.
I turned the sedan off the parkway, taking the narrow, winding backroad that led into the wooded hills of Purchase.
The ancient oak trees hung low over the asphalt, their bare, wet branches clawing at the vehicle's roof.
Half a mile before the estate’s wrought-iron gates, I killed the headlights and let the car roll in complete darkness.
The engine purred softly as I steered the sedan onto a hidden dirt access road used by seasonal landscapers.
I brought the vehicle to a halt behind a dense thicket of wet pine trees.
I reached over, grabbed the cold revolver, and slipped it into the deep pocket of the oversized sweater.
The rain hit my face like needles the moment I pushed the driver door open into the mud.
My teeth chattered so violently I had to bite the inside of my cheek to remain silent.
The estate was surrounded by a ten-foot stone wall capped with black wrought-iron spikes.
I crept along the perimeter wall until I reached the rusted iron maintenance gate hidden behind the compost shed.
The padlock hung loose from the chain; someone had already sheared through the brass casing with heavy bolt cutters.
Salvatore’s strike team was already inside the grounds.
I squeezed through the narrow gap in the gate, feeling the wet rust scratch against my bare arms.
The manicured lawns stretched out before me under the pale moonlight, glowing with sheets of standing water.
Two hundred yards away, the Moretti family mansion stood against the low storm clouds like a dark, sleeping fortress.
The exterior landscape floodlights, which normally illuminated the marble statues and fountains, were completely dark.
Salvatore’s men had severed the municipal power lines just as Lorenzo had predicted.
I sprinted low across the sodden grass, darting from the shadow of one weeping willow to the next.
The mud sucked at my bare toes, freezing my blood and slowing my desperate strides.
Near the south veranda, a solitary figure stood under the stone colonnade, holding an assault rifle across his chest.
He was smoking a cigarette, the orange ember flaring bright against the wet masonry.
He wore the black tactical jacket characteristic of Geno’s personal enforcement squad.
I dropped onto my stomach in the wet boxwood hedges, holding my breath until my lungs burned.
The guard tossed his cigarette butt into the gravel path and stepped down toward the driveway to check his radio.
I used those three seconds of distraction to slip past the colonnade and reach the rear service door of the kitchen.
The heavy wooden door stood unlatched, propped open half an inch with a rolled piece of cardboard.
I pushed the door open with the tips of my fingers, avoiding the squeaking hinges I knew so well.
The warmth of the dark kitchen washed over my frozen skin, carrying the faint scent of cinnamon and lavender soap.
May you like
Donna Elena was upstairs on the second floor, resting in the suite that had belonged to the family matriarchs for seventy years.
I pulled the revolver from my pocket, gripped the cross around my neck, and stepped into the pitch-black hallway.
