Chapter 6 - THE MAN WITH THE SCAR
Time seemed to slow down to an agonizing crawl.
The barrel of the pistol looked as wide as a cannon in the amber glow of the highway streetlights. The rain lashed against my face, cold and stinging.
I didn't have any combat training. I was just a twenty-nine-year-old housemaid from Queens.
But as the gunman’s finger began to tighten on the trigger, a massive shadow lunged from the side of the van.
Dante Caruso slammed into the gunman like a runaway freight train, tackling him hard against the side of the transport van. The pistol went off, the bullet sparking harmlessly off the asphalt.
With a brutal, sweeping kick, Dante sent the man sprawling onto the highway. A second later, Marco and two other Caruso guards swarmed the remaining attackers, quickly disarming them and pinning them to the ground.
Silence descended on the bridge, broken only by the hiss of rain and the heavy, ragged breathing of the men.
Dante stood panting in the middle of the pavement, his shirt soaked, his hair plastered to his forehead. He slowly turned his head and looked at me, standing frozen with the iron wrench still clutched in my hand.
“Are you out of your damn mind?” Dante roared, storming over to me.
“You’re welcome!” I shouted back, adrenaline making my voice shake.
Dante grabbed me by the shoulders, his dark eyes wide with a mix of fury and intense, overwhelming relief.
“You could have been killed!” he yelled over the sound of approaching police sirens.
“And so could your daughter!” I shot back, refusing to back down.
Dante stared at me. The harsh lines of anger on his face slowly melted away, replaced by something raw and deeply tender. He didn't say another word. Instead, he pulled me straight against his chest, wrapping his arms around me in a crushing, desperate embrace.
I buried my face in his damp shirt, my heart hammering against his ribs, breathing in the scent of rain, cedar, and gunpowder.
“Boss!” Marco called out, jogging over. “The perimeter is secure. The federal agents are fine, and... and she’s safe.”
Dante slowly pulled back, keeping his hands resting gently on my waist. He looked toward the open doors of the transport van.
A small, trembling figure stepped out into the light.
Elena.
She was nine years old, wearing a blue denim jacket exactly like the one in the Polaroid photo. Her dark curls were damp from the rain, and her large, frightened brown eyes looked around at the flashing police lights and armed guards.
Dante walked over slowly, dropping to one knee so he was at her eye level.
“Elena?” Dante asked, his voice trembling so badly he could barely speak.
The little girl stared at him, biting her lower lip. “Are you... are you my daddy?”
“Yes, sweetheart,” Dante choked out, tears finally breaking free. “I’m your daddy. And I am never, ever letting you go.”
Elena let out a small sob and threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. Dante wrapped his massive arms around her, holding her so tightly as if he were afraid she might vanish into thin air.
I stood a few feet away, wiping a tear from my own cheek, watching a broken family finally put back together.
Marco walked up beside me, handing me my dropped iron wrench.
“You know, Emily,” Marco muttered with a faint, approving smirk. “For a housemaid, you pack a hell of a swing.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice cleaning up messes,” I whispered back.
Dante stood up, carrying Elena in his arms. He walked over to us, looking down at his daughter, then raising his dark eyes to meet mine.
“Let’s go home,” Dante said softly.
“Home,” Elena repeated, trying the word out like a foreign concept.
“Yes, sweetheart,” Dante smiled, adjusting her weight in his arms. “We have a big house, a big yard, and a sister who has been waiting for you for a very long time.”
May you like
He looked at me, his hand reaching out to gently brush a wet strand of hair from my forehead.
“And someone very special who helped bring you back.”
