Chapter 7 - THE PORT OF ENTRY
The car sped along the dark, icy surface of Storrow Drive, the Charles River a black, frozen expanse on our right.
Behind us, the headlights of two dark SUVs pursued us, their engines roaring through the quiet Boston night.
"We can't go to the airport," Dominic said, his mind working with the cold, calculated precision of a general. "Carlo, take the turn toward the North End. The commercial docks."
"The docks?" Carlo gasped. "That’s Duca territory, Dominic! They own the piers!"
"They own the ships," Dominic corrected. "But they don't own the water. My logistics team has a tug registered to Valente Shipping sitting at Pier 4. We take the boat."
Meline clutched his coat, her face buried in his chest. Her head was spinning, her stomach tight with a sudden, sharp cramp that made her gasp.
"Dominic," she whispered. "The baby... it hurts."
Dominic’s face went pale. He pressed his hand to her belly, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Hold on, Meline. Just hold on. I’ve got you."
He looked up at Carlo. "Drive faster."
The car skidded onto the commercial piers, the dark, industrial cranes rising above the harbor like metal monsters. The snow was blowing off the water in thick, freezing sheets.
The black sedan crashed through a wooden security barrier, sliding to a halt near the edge of the concrete pier where a massive, steel-hulled tugboat sat chugging in the dark water.
"Get her on board!" Dominic shouted, opening the door.
Before we could step out, one of the pursuing SUVs rammed the rear of our car, sending a sickening jolt through the vehicle.
The doors of the SUV flew open, and four men in heavy coats stepped out, their guns raised.
"Valente!" a voice called out through the wind. "Your father-in-law wants to have a word!"
Dominic didn't hesitate. He stepped out of the car, his Beretta firing three times in rapid succession.
One of the shooters collapsed into the snow. The others dove behind their vehicle, returning fire with automatic weapons.
"Go, Carlo!" Dominic shouted, using the open car door as cover as he fired back. "Get Meline onto the boat!"
Carlo grabbed Meline, pulling her toward the metal gangway of the tugboat. She stumbled, her boots slipping on the icy metal, but Carlo held her up, his strong grip keeping her from falling into the black, freezing water below.
"Dominic!" she screamed, looking back through the snow.
Dominic stood on the concrete pier, his dark coat blowing in the wind, a solitary, terrifying figure standing against the storm. He was no longer the man who had bought her coffee or kissed her in the museum.
He was the king of Chicago. And he was protecting his crown.
He fired his last round, then lunged toward the gangway just as a bullet struck his shoulder.
He stumbled, but his momentum carried him onto the deck of the boat.
"Cast off!" Carlo roared to the captain in the pilot house.
The heavy diesel engines of the tugboat roared, the water churning into white foam as the vessel pulled away from the concrete pier.
On the dock, the remaining shooters stood in the snow, their weapons raised, but the distance was already too great.
Dominic lay on the metal deck, his hand clutched to his bleeding shoulder.
Meline crawled over to him, her tears mixing with the snow on his face.
"You're hurt," she sobbed.
May you like
Dominic offered her a small, pale smile—the rare, private smile she had missed for three months.
"I’m fine, Meline," he whispered, his hand reaching out to touch her wet cheek. "We’re out of their city. We’re going home."
