Chapter 8 - The Arrival of the Loyal
The impact sent Marco flying ten feet through the air, his revolver discharging harmlessly into the stormy night sky before he crashed into the boxwood hedges, unconscious.
The SUV slid to a halt on the wet pavers, its doors flying open instantly.
Four men in dark raincoats jumped out, weapons raised, securing the perimeter of the courtyard within three seconds.
At the head of the team was Dominic Vane—my senior lieutenant from the Providence operations, the man I had spent the evening with resolving the docks dispute.
"Boss!" Dominic shouted, running across the slick grass, his weapon trained on Julian's unconscious form. "We tracked a secondary radio frequency from Marco's phone twenty minutes ago! He was broadcasting our perimeter codes to a Moretti cell in Revere!"
"Secure the perimeter," I commanded, wiping the rain and blood from my eyes. "And call Dr. Gable to the house immediately. We have three wounded inside."
Dominic looked down at Julian, his jaw dropping in disbelief as he recognized the face of the man who had been reported dead seven years ago. "Jesus... is that... Julian?"
"The ghost is back," I said grimly, standing up and straightening my wet suit jacket. "Take him down to the holding cells beneath the wine cellar. Put double iron on his wrists and ankles. If he speaks a word, gag him."
"And Marco?" Dominic asked, pointing toward the hedges where my former chief of security lay motionless.
"Put him in the cell next to my brother," I ordered. "They can discuss their Sicilian real estate together while we wait for sunrise."
I turned back toward the house, walking up the marble steps into the grand foyer.
Inside, the mansion was quiet again, save for the hum of the radiator and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
In the living room, sitting on the plush velvet sofa beneath a warm gold lamp, was Grace Harper. Her shoulder was wrapped in fresh white bandages that Clara Duca had carefully secured with surgical tape.
Sitting beside Grace was little Mia.
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The six-year-old girl was drinking a mug of warm milk, her baby sister finally awake, sitting on her lap, playing with the plastic buttons on Mia’s cardigan.
Clara Duca sat in an armchair across from them, holding a blanket around her shoulders, looking at the light of the lamp as if she hadn't seen natural illumination in a decade.
