Chapter 8 - FIRE ON THE BRIDGE|
The lead chasing sedan blew its front left tire at eighty miles an hour. The car flipped violently onto its side, tumbling down the tarmac in a ball of flame and twisted metal, blocking the bridge lanes behind us.
The second sedan swerved to avoid the wreckage, blowing its horn frantically before disappearing into the burning smoke.
Our driver straightened the SUV, speeding away into the industrial maze of Northern New Jersey.
Enzo rolled his window back up, unbuttoning his collar slightly as he took a deep breath. "Heading to Newark. The old Duarte residence."
"Boss, that area is hot," Tomaso warned. "Gianni will have spotters watching your old properties and Duarte's old neighborhood."
"Let them watch," Enzo said coldly. "They expect us to hide in a safe house in Long Island. They won't expect us to go straight into the tiger's den."
He turned to look at me. His gaze softened just a fraction as he took in my trembling hands and the torn hem of my maid uniform.
"You've kept a state secret for eight years while scrubbing hotel mirrors for twelve dollars an hour, Amelia," Enzo said, his tone carrying a rare note of genuine respect. "Why didn't you go to the FBI?"
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"Because the FBI was on the list," I replied bitterly, looking out the tinted window at the passing industrial skyline. "The agent who led my father’s security detail bought a three-million-dollar villa in Miami two months after my father was buried. In my world, Mr. Marciano, uniforms don't mean justice. They just mean higher prices."
Enzo offered a faint, dark smile. "Welcome to my world, Amelia."
