Chapter 82 - Blood on Mulberry
The customized black armored sedan tore through the rain-slicked intersections of Lower Manhattan like a guided missile. Dante Moretti did not touch the siren; the roar of the twin-turbocharged V8 engine echoed off the iron-front buildings of SoHo like rolling thunder. Red traffic lights were blurred streaks of crimson through the windshield wipers.
Dante’s hands were clamped onto the steering wheel with such ferocity that the leather groaned under his gloves. His face was carved of granite, but beneath his ribcage, his heart was a furnace of cold, murderous agony.
*Lorenzo's dying words circled his brain like vultures.*
*They entered through the kitchen cellars ten minutes ago... Your precious waitress... your little artist daughter...*
"Don't you dare," Dante growled into the empty car, his voice a gravelly, feral rasp. "Don't you dare touch them."
He threw the heavy car into a drift around the sharp corner of Prince Street, tires screaming against wet cobblestones, spraying filthy gutter water across the sidewalk. When Mulberry Street came into view, the sight turned his blood into ice.
The front facade of Bellanote—the sacred sanctuary he had rebuilt with his own blood and treasure—was shattered. The stained glass window depicting the olive groves of Tuscany was obliterated. Smoke billowed lazily from the gaping front doorway into the damp midnight air. Two of his perimeter guards lay motionless on the sidewalk, their umbrellas discarded in the gutter beside pools of darkening crimson.
Dante didn't wait for the car to come to a complete halt. He shoved the door open, drawing his customized Kimber 1911 in his right hand and a tactical flashlight in his left.
"Marco!" Dante shouted, his voice cutting through the hiss of rain.
He stepped over the threshold, his boots sinking into wet plaster and broken glass. The silence inside was suffocating, broken only by the steady drip of water from a severed espresso machine line.
Dante moved with lethal military economy, clearing the corners of the dining room. Three dead men lay near the coat check—hired muscle wearing French tactical gear, each dropped by center-mass shots. Marco had made them pay for every inch of ground.
Dante breached the kitchen swing doors.
"Marco!"
A low groan answered him from beneath the prep counter. Dante dropped to one knee, holstering his weapon, and pulled the heavy steel shelf away. Marco was slumped against the wall, his face battered and pale from blood loss, his hand weakly pressed against a puncture wound in his side.
"Boss..." Marco whispered, coughing weakly, flecks of crimson spotting his lips. "I failed you. They... they hit us with flash-bangs from the back cellar stairs. Professional commandos. Marseilles..."
"Where are they, Marco?" Dante demanded, his voice dangerously low, his fingers checking Marco’s pulse with clinical precision. "Where is Sofia? Where is Maya?"
"They... they took them," Marco gasped, tears of fury and shame leaking from his swollen eyes. "A black delivery van... unmarked. Heading toward the West Side highway... toward the piers. But Maya... Maya didn't go quietly, Boss. Look... look on the wall."
Dante turned his flashlight toward the back exit door.
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On the white industrial doorframe, scrawled with furious, desperate pressure, was a thick, jagged purple arrow pointing toward the alley—and beside it, stamped in fresh red blood, was the tiny imprint of a child's hand.
***
