Chapter 8 - THE DROPPED CONTAINER
The heavy steel wrench struck the red emergency-release lever with a sickening CRACK.
For a split second, nothing happened.
Then, the massive hydraulic locks of the cargo crane directly above Marcus’s head violently disengaged.
A forty-foot steel shipping container, suspended three stories in the air, plummeted.
“What the—” Marcus looked up, his eyes widening in pure terror.
SMASH.
The container hit the catwalk with the force of a bomb. The entire metal walkway buckled and collapsed under the immense weight, sending Marcus and his two men screaming into the darkness below.
The vibration threw me and Adrian to our knees. I shielded Elias with my body as the deafening screech of tearing metal echoed through the warehouse.
Dust and debris rained down on us.
When the dust settled, the catwalk on our side was intact, but the path forward was completely destroyed. Below us, the shipping container sat in a mangled heap of metal. Marcus was gone.
Adrian let out a breathless, shocked laugh. He looked at me, awe and terror mixed in his dark eyes.
“Remind me never to make you angry,” he rasped, clutching his bleeding arm.
“Let’s go,” I said, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my teeth.
We had to climb down the maintenance ladder on the side of the surviving catwalk. Adrian went first, managing the descent with one good arm. I followed, holding Elias tightly to my chest with a baby-carry wrap I fashioned from my torn jacket.
As my feet hit the concrete floor of the warehouse, the massive bay doors at the front rolled open with a mechanical groan.
The firefight outside had ended.
Standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the headlights, was Don Moretti. He was flanked by a dozen of his surviving men. At his feet lay the lifeless body of Camilla Corsetti.
The Don had won the street war.
Now, he was coming for his prize.
“Impressive, Sarah,” the Don’s voice echoed through the vast space. “You took out my best consigliere with a rusty wrench and a prayer. You have grit. I’ll give you that.”
He stepped into the warehouse, his men fanning out, raising their weapons at us.
“It’s over, Adrian,” the Don said, spreading his hands. “Camilla is dead. The Corsettis are broken. I control the harbor. I control the police outside. Give me the boy, and I will let you and the woman walk away. A one-time offer.”
Adrian stood in front of me, his back straight despite his injuries. He raised his gun, pointing it at his father.
“You’re right, old man,” Adrian said, his voice ringing with absolute authority. “It is over. But you don’t control the harbor.”
Adrian reached into his pocket with his injured arm and pulled out the small, rolled-up microfilm.
He held it up in the air.
“I sent a copy of this ledger to the Five Families of the Commission an hour ago, while we were in the subway tunnel,” Adrian lied flawlessly, his face a mask of iron certainty. “They know about your side deal with Camilla. They know you betrayed the syndicate to hoard the weapons shipment for yourself.”
Don Moretti’s confident smirk faltered.
“You’re lying,” the Don spat.
“Am I?” Adrian challenged. “Listen.”
A new sound pierced the night air.
Sirens. Not police sirens. The heavy, rhythmic wail of armored federal tactical vehicles. And above that, the distinct, thumping chop of black helicopters sweeping over the harbor.
The Commission hadn't sent the feds. Adrian had sent the feds, using the burner phone to tip off the FBI task force that had been hunting Camilla for years.
“The FBI is here,” Adrian said coldly. “And they have the ledger. Your accounts are frozen. Your men are surrounded. You have nothing.”
Panic rippled through the Don’s men. A few of them lowered their weapons, looking toward the open bay doors as the blue and red lights began to flash against the warehouse walls.
Don Moretti’s face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred.
“If I fall,” the Don snarled, drawing a gold-plated revolver from his coat. “I take my legacy with me. Nobody gets the boy!”
He aimed the revolver directly at Elias.
Time slowed down to a crawl.
I saw the Don’s finger whiten on the trigger. I saw the hammer pull back.
I didn't scream. I didn't freeze.
I lunged.
I threw myself sideways, twisting my body to place my back between the Don’s gun and Elias.
A gunshot rang out.
A deafening, echoing BANG that shook my very soul.
But I didn't feel the impact.
I opened my eyes.
Adrian stood in front of me. His gun was smoking in his hand.
Twenty feet away, Don Moretti stood frozen. He looked down at his chest. A dark red stain was spreading rapidly across his pristine charcoal suit.
The gold-plated revolver slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the concrete.
The Don looked at Adrian, utter disbelief in his eyes. Then, his knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor.
The remaining guards dropped their weapons and put their hands on their heads as the FBI tactical teams breached the warehouse doors, floodlights blinding us.
Adrian dropped his gun. He turned to me, his chest heaving, his face pale.
He fell to his knees, wrapping his good arm around my waist, burying his face in my stomach.
“You’re safe,” Adrian sobbed, the ruthless mafia boss finally breaking down. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you both.”
I sank to my knees, holding Elias, holding Adrian. We were a tangled mess of wet clothes, blood, and tears on the cold warehouse floor.
Elias reached out, his tiny hand patting Adrian’s dark hair, then reaching over to touch my cheek.
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“Mommy’s here,” Elias whispered.
“Yes, baby,” I cried, kissing his little fingers. “Mommy’s here. And she’s never leaving again.”
