Chapter 5 - The Night in Newport
The estate in Newport, Rhode Island, was a sprawling cliffside mansion overlooking the dark, turbulent waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Rain hammered against the high glass bay windows, blurring the lights of the yacht docked at the private slip three hundred yards below.
Inside the marble-floored study, Carlo Rossi was pouring himself a double glass of twenty-year-old scotch. His hands were wringing nervously.
"Why hasn't he called?" Carlo muttered to himself, checking his encrypted satellite phone for the tenth time in twenty minutes. "The job at The Salt Line was supposed to be finished by nine. It's almost three in the morning."
He walked over to the bay window, staring out at the storm. "If that fool missed... if Rafe finds out..."
A sudden, sharp THUD echoed from the front courtyard.
Carlo froze. He set his scotch glass down so hard the amber liquid sloshed onto the polished mahogany desk. "Guards?" he called out toward the hallway. "Hey! What was that?"
No answer.
Only the sound of rain blowing against the glass.
Carlo reached into his desk drawer, his shaking hand wrapping around a small snub-nosed revolver. He backed away toward the private security door that led down to the boat dock. "Guards! Answer me!"
The heavy double doors of the study didn't just open—they were kicked completely off their brass hinges, slamming onto the floor with a sound like thunder.
Carlo let out a pathetic shriek, raising his gun.
Before his finger could touch the trigger, a single suppressed shot echoed through the room.
THWIP.
A high-velocity round tore through Carlo’s right wrist. His gun clattered uselessly onto the Persian rug as he fell to his knees, clutching his bloody arm, screaming in pain.
Through the heavy smoke and rain mist flowing in from the courtyard, Rafe Colazo walked into the study.
He was flanked by eight men clad in black tactical gear, their submachine guns raised, sweeping the corners of the room with terrifying efficiency. The eight private guards Carlo had hired to protect his estate were already lying unconscious or neutralized in the courtyard outside.
Rafe walked calmly over to the mahogany desk, stepped over Carlo’s bleeding hand, and picked up the half-empty glass of scotch. He swirled the golden liquid once, then poured it slowly over Carlo’s head.
Carlo spluttered, the stinging alcohol mixing with his sweat and tears. "Rafe! Rafe, please! It’s a mistake! I was set up! The Moretti crew forced me—"
Rafe didn't say a word. He reached down, grabbed Carlo by his thinning hair, and dragged him across the floor like a dirty rag, pulling him toward the open terrace doors where the icy ocean wind was howling.
"Rafe! Mercy! For God's sake, Rafe! We've known each other for ten years!" Carlo sobbed, his knees scraping against the marble floor.
Rafe stopped at the edge of the stone balcony, fifty feet above the jagged black rocks where the Atlantic waves were crashing furiously. He held Carlo over the drop by his collar, the old man’s legs dangling uselessly in mid-air.
"Ten years," Rafe said, his voice slicing through the roar of the wind. "Ten years I fed you, protected you, gave your sons jobs on the docks. And you sent an assassin with an iron bar to strike my nineteen-year-old sister while she was drinking tea."
"I was greedy! I was stupid! Please!" Carlo screamed, looking down at the white foam crashing against the sharp rocks below.
"You didn't just target my sister, Carlo," Rafe whispered, leaning down until his lips were inches from the traitor's ear. "You hit an innocent woman. A waitress who makes twelve dollars an hour and spends her nights praying her sick son doesn't die in a public hospital."
Carlo blinked through his terror, completely baffled by the words. "A... a waitress? What are you talking about?! What waitress?!"
"The woman who took the blow meant for my sister," Rafe said. "Her name is Mave. And her life is worth more than everything you have ever owned."
Rafe pulled Carlo back onto the stone terrace with a single, powerful jerk, slamming him face-first onto the wet slate.
"Bind his hands," Rafe ordered Julian, who stepped forward with thick zip-ties. "Throw him in the trunk of the sedan. We are driving back to Boston."
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"Are we taking him to Pier 4, Boss?" Julian asked.
"No," Rafe said, turning his collar up against the pouring rain as he walked back toward the shattered doorway. "We are taking him to St. Jude’s. He’s going to sit in a chair outside her ICU room until she wakes up. And then he’s going to sign over every asset, every property, and every offshore account he owns to her son’s medical trust."
