Chapter 13 - The Prodigal Thief
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The service elevator bypassed the chaotic, war-torn lobby and dropped them directly into the sub-basement maintenance tunnels beneath the skyscraper. It was freezing, dark, and smelled of ozone and damp concrete.
Dominic pushed open a heavy grate, leading Chloe, Silas, and Marcus out into a narrow access alley two blocks away from the burning tower. Sirens wailed in every direction. The Boston police were finally responding, but the damage was already catastrophic.
“We lost the fortress,” Marcus panted, checking his ammo reserves. “Where do we go now, Boss? Volkov knows all our safe houses.”
“He doesn't know the ghosts,” Dominic said, his breathing heavy as blood continued to seep down his arm. “We go to St. Jude’s abandoned church in the North End. My father bought the property thirty years ago under a shell company. Nobody knows about it.”
They stole a parked, inconspicuous sedan from a nearby street and drove recklessly through the panicked morning traffic. Chloe sat in the back seat, staring blankly at the blood staining her hands—Dominic’s blood. She had been a waitress twenty-four hours ago. Now she was a high-value target in a mafia war.
They arrived at the crumbling, gothic structure of St. Jude’s. The stained glass windows were boarded up, and the heavy wooden doors were locked with rusty chains. Silas quickly picked the padlock, ushering them inside.
The sanctuary was cold and hollow, filled with dust-covered pews and a broken altar. It felt like a tomb.
“Set a perimeter,” Dominic ordered his men, collapsing onto a wooden pew, finally showing the physical toll of his injury.
Chloe didn't wait for permission. She ripped a long strip of fabric from her sweater and rushed to his side. “Take your jacket off. You’re losing too much blood.”
Dominic looked at her, surprised by her sudden authority. He slowly peeled the ruined Brioni jacket off, wincing as she applied brutal pressure to the deep shrapnel wound in his shoulder.
“You have steady hands, waitress,” Dominic grunted, leaning his head back against the pew.
“I wanted to be a nurse before my mom got sick and the money ran out,” she said quietly, tying the makeshift tourniquet tight.
Before Dominic could respond, a dark figure detached itself from the shadows near the confessional booths.
Silas immediately raised his rifle, aiming it at the intruder. “Hold it right there!”
The figure stumbled forward, limping heavily, clutching his side. As he stepped into the pale light filtering through the cracked roof, Chloe’s heart stopped.
It was Tommy. His face was bruised purple, his clothes torn and soaked in blood.
“Chloe?” Tommy gasped, falling to his knees on the dusty floor.
“Tommy!” she screamed, abandoning Dominic and running to throw her arms around her brother. “Oh my God, you're alive! How did you escape Volkov?”
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Tommy looked up, his eyes terrified and hollow, meeting Dominic’s cold, calculating stare.
“I didn't escape,” Tommy whispered, blood dripping from his lips. “They let me go. They told me to give you a message, Russo.”
