Chapter 7 - The Bridge of Sighs
The rain had turned into a thick, stinging sleet by the time the Suburban slipped out of the Heights, its headlights completely blacked out as Marcus navigated the winding mountain roads using night-vision goggles mounted to his helmet.
Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was dead silent. Dominic sat in the middle seat, his hands resting on his knees. In the very back, Nora sat with Leo, who was asleep with his head in her lap, wrapped in three layers of heavy wool blankets. Dominic had refused to leave her at the brownstone; with the guard down to four men, the estate was no longer a fortress if Carmine realized Dominic had left the hill.
"We're approaching the old brickworks, Boss," Marcus whispered from the front. "Switching to the dirt road now."
The heavy SUV rocked as the tires transitioned from asphalt to deep, rain-soaked mud. The vehicle pitched and swayed, the heavy-duty suspension groaning under the weight of the ballistic plating. Nora gripped the grab bar above the window, her knuckles turning white, but she didn't make a sound. She watched the back of Dominic’s head, noting the absolute stillness of his shoulders.
"Tony, status on the perimeter," Dominic ordered.
Tony, looking through a thermal scope mounted to the passenger window, grunted. "Static. The two guards at the main gate are huddled inside a plastic guard shack trying to stay dry. The trucks are still idling at the bays. No signs of movement."
"Stop here," Dominic said.
Marcus brought the Suburban to a silent halt behind the crumbling brick chimney of the abandoned factory, roughly two hundred yards from the glowing, high-intensity halogen lights of the cold-storage warehouse.
"Marcus, stay with the vehicle and protect Nora and the boy," Dominic said. "Tony, you and I are going to the pump house."
Tony didn't hesitate. He hopped out of the front passenger seat, opened the rear door, and pulled out Dominic's wheelchair, setting it quickly in the deep mud. He then helped Dominic swing his body down into the seat. The wheels immediately sank three inches into the frozen mire.
Nora leaned forward, her face pressed near the door. "Russo," she whispered, her voice tight. "Don't get yourself killed. I still haven't gotten my sixty-five dollars."
Dominic looked back at her through the rain, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. "I always pay my debts, Nora."
With a powerful push of his arms, Dominic drove the wheelchair forward through the mud, Tony walking low beside him, carrying a heavy canvas bag filled with thermite charges and copper wire.
The mud was a brutal enemy. For a man without legs, every inch of the rough terrain was a physical battle against the earth itself. Dominic’s forearms burned, his palms raw against the cold metal rims of his wheels, but he didn't slow down. The raw fury that had been building inside him for four months—since the bullet had severed his spine—found its outlet in the mud. He wasn't a king in a chair; he was a machine of pure, unyielding will.
They reached the rusted corrugated metal wall of the pump house without raising an alarm. The sound of the wind and the pounding sleet drowned out the squeak of his wet tires.
Tony pulled a pair of heavy bolt cutters from his pack and snapped the padlock on the pump house door. With a soft groan of rusted hinges, they slipped inside.
The interior was loud, dominated by the rhythmic, deafening throb of three massive six-cylinder diesel engines. The smell of oil, fuel, and hot metal was thick enough to taste.
"Get the thermite on the main fuel line," Dominic ordered, his voice barely audible over the roar of the engines. "We don't need a massive blast. Just a steady, high-temperature burn that melts the copper lines and lets the diesel pool onto the electrical junction box."
Tony nodded, climbing up a steel ladder to reach the overhead fuel manifold.
Suddenly, the door of the pump house flew open, letting in a swirl of freezing rain and the harsh light of a flashlight.
"Hey! Who the hell is in here?" a voice shouted.
It was one of Carmine’s perimeter guards, a heavy-set man in a yellow slicker, his rifle slung over his shoulder. He hadn't expected anyone to be inside; he had simply stepped in to get out of the freezing sleet.
Before the guard could raise his weapon, Dominic’s hand went under his seat. He didn't pull the snub-nosed .38 this time. He pulled a heavy, silver-plated Italian stiletto knife—a gift from his father when he had taken his first block in the Southside.
Dominic spun his chair with a single, violent stroke of his left hand, using his momentum to launch himself forward. He grabbed the guard by the collar of his wet slicker, pulling the man down onto the cold concrete floor with the sheer, terrifying weight of his upper body.
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The guard let out a choked gasp as Dominic’s hand locked around his throat, pinning him to the floor. The stiletto blade flashed in the dim light of the pump house, stopping just a fraction of an inch from the guard's left eye.
"Make a sound," Dominic whispered, his face inches from the trembling man’s, "and I will carve my name into your skull before your friends even realize the lights are out."
