Chapter 11 - The Decoy
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“We have to move!” Dante yelled, grabbing my arm and hauling me toward the back of the safehouse.
He slammed a hidden button on the wall, and a heavy metal grate slid open, revealing a dark, narrow utility tunnel.
“Where does this go?” I panicked, stumbling in my shoes as he pushed me inside.
“It leads to the subway maintenance shafts,” Dante said, racking the slide of his weapon. “The boss had it built for exactly this reason. Move, Emily! Now!”
We sprinted through the dark, damp tunnel. The sound of a massive explosion rocked the concrete above us, vibrating through the soles of my shoes. The Mancusos had breached the safehouse.
“They blew the main door,” Dante cursed, shining a tactical flashlight ahead of us.
We ran for what felt like miles in the dark, my lungs burning, the horrific reality of the night crashing down on me. Christopher was trapped in a burning building somewhere in the city, and the Calabrian mafia was actively hunting me through the sewers.
We finally reached a heavy iron ladder leading up to a manhole cover. Dante pushed it open, hauling himself up into the freezing Boston night, then reached down to pull me out.
We emerged into a dark, deserted alleyway in the North End, mere blocks from Cafe Napoli.
“We need a car,” Dante muttered, scanning the empty street.
Before he could take a step, the blinding high-beams of two black SUVs snapped on at the end of the alley, trapping us perfectly in the light.
Dante shoved me behind a dumpster, raising his submachine gun.
“Run, Emily!” Dante roared, opening fire on the vehicles.
The alley erupted into a deafening warzone. Glass shattered, bullets pinged against the brick walls, and shouting in Italian echoed through the narrow space. I scrambled backward, crawling through the trash and freezing slush, too terrified to breathe.
I heard a sickening thud, and Dante’s gunfire abruptly stopped.
“No,” I whimpered, peaking around the corner of the dumpster.
Dante lay motionless on the pavement, a pool of dark blood spreading beneath him.
Heavy footsteps crunched on the gravel. I tried to stand, to run, but a massive hand grabbed my hair, yanking me violently to my feet.
I screamed, thrashing against the grip, but I was easily overpowered.
A man stepped into the light of the headlights. He was wearing a pristine gray suit, untouched by the violence around him. Lorenzo Mancuso.
May you like
He smiled his cruel, slashing smile, looking me up and down.
“You have a beautiful voice, little bird,” Lorenzo purred, his accent thick and venomous. “Let’s see if Christopher Vitali sings when I send him pieces of you.”
