Chapter 9 - The Anatomy of a Bullet
Moretti stood frozen, his chest heaving, his fingers twitching against the fabric of his coat. He knew he was completely outmatched, outmaneuvered, and financially ruined.
"This isn't over, Santino," Moretti spat, his voice trembling with impotent rage. "You think a piece of paper and a stolen ledger make you invincible? The city is bigger than your family."
"The city belongs to the people who keep it running," Santino replied coldly. "And starting today, you don't even own the shoes on your feet. Get off my pier."
Moretti turned on his heel, his enforcers falling in behind him like whipped dogs, and retreated through the secondary exit toward the rain-swept parking lot.
Santino turned to the assembled union bosses and dock commissioners. "The port operations continue as scheduled. Wages will increase by four percent starting Monday morning, paid directly from the new maritime trust. Does anyone have an objection?"
The fifty men shook their heads in rapid, terrified agreement.
"Good," Santino said. "Dismissed."
As they walked back toward the motorcade, the adrenaline that had sustained Caitlyn began to fade, leaving her knees trembling slightly. Santino noticed immediately; he slid his arm around her waist, supporting her weight effortlessly without drawing the attention of his men.
"You were magnificent," Santino murmured as they reached the lead Suburban.
"I was terrified," Caitlyn admitted, leaning against the warm leather interior as he opened the door for her.
"Courage isn't the absence of fear, Caterina," Santino said, stepping in behind her and closing the heavy armored door. "It's acting in spite of it."
The motorcade pulled out of Pier 9, heading south along Route 4 toward Newport.
The rain had turned into a torrential downpour. The windshield wipers swept back and forth with frantic, rhythmic thuds. The convoy was crossing the Jamestown Verrazzano Bridge—a long, concrete span suspended over the churning, black waters of the bay—when the world exploded into violence.
From the opposite lane, a heavy commercial dump truck with its headlights switched off suddenly swerved across the concrete median.
The impact was catastrophic.
The lead security Suburban was struck head-on at fifty miles per hour, flipping through the air and crashing onto its roof in a shower of sparks, metal, and shattered safety glass.
"Ambush!" the driver screamed, slamming on the brakes.
Santino’s Suburban skidded across the slick asphalt, the anti-lock brakes groaning as the heavy vehicle spun ninety degrees before slamming against the bridge’s concrete retaining barrier.
Before the smoke could clear, two black vans screeched to a halt behind them. The side doors slid open, and eight men in tactical gear stepped out, armed with automatic carbines.
A hail of high-caliber rounds slammed into the armored glass of the Suburban. The reinforced windows spider-webbed instantly, white impact rings blooming across the windshield like deadly frost.
"Stay down!" Santino roared, shoving Caitlyn onto the floorboard beneath the heavy leather seats and covering her body with his own.
Santino drew his custom .45 from his shoulder holster, kicked open the damaged passenger door, and returned fire with lethal, rapid precision. Two attackers fell instantly on the wet pavement.
The driver of their Suburban was slumped over the steering wheel, unconscious and bleeding heavily from a head laceration.
"Santino, behind you!" Caitlyn screamed from the floorboard.
A third attacker had climbed onto the hood of the vehicle, leveling a short-barreled shotgun directly through the cracked driver's side window.
Without a second thought, driven entirely by raw survival instinct, Caitlyn lunged upward. She grabbed the heavy steel fire extinguisher mounted beneath the rear console and slammed it through the shattered window with all the strength in her body, striking the gunman directly in the throat.
The man gagged, stumbling backward off the hood.
Santino spun and fired two rounds through the frame, dropping the shooter instantly.
But as Santino turned back toward the rear of the vehicle, a sniper positioned atop the disabled dump truck fired a single, suppressed round.
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The high-velocity bullet shattered the rear quarter-panel glass and struck Santino high in the right side of his chest, just beneath the collarbone.
The impact threw Santino backward onto the rear seat. A sharp, ragged gasp tore from his throat as dark, arterial blood began to spread across the crisp white fabric of his shirt.
