Chapter 6 - THE ENEMY AT THE DOOR
"Who is it?" Meline asked, her heart rising into her throat as she saw the sudden change in Dominic’s posture.
"The Ducas," Dominic said, pulling her back into the shadow of the hallway. "They followed us. My underboss, Carlo, was supposed to keep the tail clean, but they must have had an informant inside our own logistics team."
The earpiece crackled. “Boss,” Carlo’s voice came through, tense and fast. “Two SUVs just pulled up on Mount Vernon Street. They’ve got five men on foot. They know you’re in there.”
"Get the car to the alley," Dominic ordered. "Now."
He turned to Meline, his hands grasping her shoulders. "Meline, listen to me. I need you to trust me. Just for ten minutes. I’m going to get you out of here, but you have to do exactly what I say."
She looked at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and a strange, sudden clarity. She was no longer just running for herself. She was running for the baby. And the man in front of her was the only one who could keep them alive.
"Okay," she whispered.
"Good girl," he said, kissing her forehead quickly—a brief, desperate brush of warmth before the storm.
A loud crash shattered the front door of the townhouse upstairs.
"Federal agents!" a voice shouted from the hallway above.
Dominic let out a harsh, dry laugh. "They’re not federal. They’re Duca’s clean-up crew from New York."
He pulled Meline down the narrow hallway toward the rear of the apartment, where a small window opened onto the narrow service alley behind the block.
He shattered the glass with the butt of his gun, clearing the frame with his gloved hand.
"Up," he said, lifting her by her waist.
She scrambled through the window, the cold winter air hitting her face as she tumbled onto the wet snow of the alley. Dominic was right behind her, his large frame dropping silently onto the pavement.
A shot echoed from inside her apartment, the bullet splintering the wooden frame of the window we had just escaped.
"Run!" Dominic growled, grabbing her hand and pulling her down the narrow, high-walled alleyway.
The snow was falling heavily now, a white-out that kept the shooters from getting a clear line of sight. They ran through the winding alleys of Beacon Hill, their breath coming in short, white puffs.
A black sedan slid around the corner at the end of the alley, its headlights cutting through the snow.
The passenger door swung open.
"Get in!" Carlo shouted from the front seat.
Dominic threw Meline into the back seat, diving in after her as the car accelerated, its tires spinning on the fresh snow before catching the asphalt.
A bullet struck the rear window, spiderwebbing the reinforced glass but failing to penetrate.
"They’re behind us," Carlo said, steering the car through the tight curves of the hill toward the Storrow Drive entrance.
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"We need to get to the private strip," Dominic said, his arm wrapped tightly around Meline as he held her against his side. "The plane is fueled. We have the medical team waiting in Chicago."
"They’ve blocked the harbor tunnels, Boss," Carlo said, his face pale. "The Duca family... they’ve got the port authority on their payroll. If we try to cross the bridge, we’re driving into a trap."
