Chapter 7 - The Bridge of Whispers
The peace of the Rhode Island sanctuary was shattered on the fourth week.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, the sky exceptionally clear, the blue ocean stretching out to the horizon like a sheet of silk. Sofia was in the study with her tutor, her laughter finally returning in small, musical bursts that made the heavy concrete house feel alive.
I was in the kitchen when the internal house alarm began to chime—a low, rhythmic pulse that signaled a breach of the exterior perimeter wall.
"Angela!" I shouted, sprinting into the hallway.
Before I could reach the study, the heavy glass doors of the terrace exploded inward, shower of sharp fragments raining down onto the hardwood floor. Three men in black wetsuits and tactical vests crashed through the frame, their automatic weapons raised, their faces covered by dark ski masks.
One of them had a green dragon tattoo curling up his neck from beneath the fabric of his vest.
"Get the girl!" the man with the tattoo roared, his voice thick with a heavy North End accent.
I didn't think. I didn't look for a weapon. I lunged forward, grabbing a heavy iron sculpture from the hallway table and driving it straight into the face of the first gunman. The impact was an ugly, cracking sound, and he stumbled back into the glass shards, his weapon firing a wild burst into the ceiling plaster.
The second man grabbed my hair, twisting my head back with a force that made my vision swim. "Where is the ledger, bitch? Where is the girl?"
"Run, Sofia!" I screamed, my voice tearing as I kicked out, my heel catching the man in the knee. "Run!"
The door to the study swung open, but it wasn't Sofia who came out. It was Marco.
The old enforcer entered the hallway with a massive shotgun in his hands, his face a mask of absolute fury. He fired twice without stopping his stride. The first blast tore through the shoulder of the man holding my hair, throwing him against the concrete wall. The second blast caught the third gunman in the chest, lifting him off his feet and slamming him into the glass railing of the terrace.
The man with the green dragon tattoo backed away, his face pale behind his mask as he realized the extraction had turned into a slaughter. He turned and lunged over the terrace railing, diving fifty feet down into the roaring Atlantic Ocean below.
Marco ran to the edge, looking down into the churning white foam, then turned back to me, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "They used a submersible, Mia. Slipped right under the sonar grid on the cliffs. They’re gone."
He walked over to me, helping me up from the floor, his eyes scanning my face for injuries. "Are you hit?"
"I’m okay," I gasped, my hands shaking violently as I looked at the blood on the floor—the fresh, bright crimson of the men who had tried to take my sister. "Marco... how did they find us? Luca said this place was off the grid."
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Marco’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes holding a cold, heavy look that made my blood run cold.
"There is only one way they found this house, Mia. Someone at the midnight council talked. Someone traded the coordinates for a payout from Jimmy Chen. I have to call the Don. The war isn't on the streets anymore. It’s inside our own house."
