Chapter 4 - The Ambush in Queens
The smoke in the stairwell was thick and tasted like burning plastic.
I coughed violently, dragging the collar of my server uniform over my nose and
mouth.
The lights were completely dead.
Only the flickering red glow from the fourth-floor fire illuminated the peeling
paint on the concrete walls.
Behind me, heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs.
"Clara! Stop!" Lorenzo’s voice boomed through the stairwell, cutting through the
crackle of flames.
I didn't stop.
A mother running to her child doesn't stop for fire, bullets, or mafia dons.
I scrambled up the stairs, two at a time, my lungs screaming for oxygen.
On the fifth-floor landing, two bodies lay motionless in pools of dark blood.
They wore tactical gear with snake insignias on their shoulders—Salvatore
Vance’s private mercenaries.
Lorenzo’s rooftop team had already done terrible work here.
I reached the sixth floor.
Apartment 6B.
The wooden door was kicked in, dangling by a single splintered hinge.
"LEO!" I screamed, throwing myself into the room.
The living room was ransacked.
My grandmother’s cheap china was shattered on the linoleum.
The sofa cushions were ripped open with knives.
Mrs. Alvarez lay unconscious near the kitchen table, blood pooling from a gash
on her forehead.
"Mrs. Alvarez!" I gasped, dropping to my knees beside her.
Her chest was still moving.
She was breathing, but barely.
Then, from Leo’s tiny bedroom at the end of the hall, a mocking voice echoed:
"Well, well. Look who finally decided to come home from her dinner shift."
I froze.
Every muscle in my body turned to stone.
A man stepped out of the bedroom shadows.
He was lean, wearing a tailored black trench coat, with slicked-back blonde hair
and cold, reptilian green eyes.
In his right hand, he held a suppressed pistol.
In his left arm, he held Leo.
Leo was crying silently, his small face red and covered in tears, his chest
hitching violently with every wheezing breath.
A piece of gray duct tape was slapped across my son's mouth.
A cold metal barrel was pressed directly against Leo’s temple.
"Let him go!" I shrieked, stepping forward.
"Take me! Don't touch him! Please!"
"One more step, Clara, and I paint this hallway with your little brat's brains,"
the man warned smoothly.
His name was Christian Vance—Salvatore’s sadistic younger brother.
"Marcus took twelve million from my family. Did you really think you could hide
behind your little waitressing job forever?"
"Mommy..." Leo’s muffled voice broke through the tape.
His eyes were wide with pure terror.
He held his tiny hands out toward me.
"I don't have the money," I sobbed, sinking to my knees and raising my hands in
surrender.
"Marcus abandoned us! He never gave us a single penny! Check my bank account! I
have nine dollars! Nine dollars!"
"I don't care about the money anymore," Christian sneered, his finger tightening
on the trigger.
"This is about sending a message to Marcus. When he sees the photos of what I do
to his son, he’ll crawl back from Costa Rica on his knees."
Suddenly, a shadow fell across the doorway behind me.
The temperature in the apartment plummeted to sub-zero.
Lorenzo stepped into the room.
He didn't have his gun raised.
He stood tall, his hands resting loosely at his sides.
His face was completely devoid of emotion.
He looked like an ancient executioner who had just arrived at the gallows.
Christian Vance’s eyes widened slightly in disbelief.
"Moretti?" Christian gasped, stepping backward.
"What the hell are you doing in Queens?"
"You broke the treaty, Christian," Lorenzo said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
"Queens belongs to the Five Families coalition. No hits on women. No hits on
children."
"This isn't your business, Lorenzo!" Christian spat, pressing the gun harder
against Leo’s skull.
Leo whimpered, his small body shaking violently.
"Marcus Dawson robbed my brother! We're reclaiming our honor!"
"The Dawson boy is under my personal protection," Lorenzo stated.
Every word fell like a heavy lead weight.
"Let the child go. Walk out of this building, and I might allow your brother to
bury you in a closed casket."
Christian let out a high-pitched, hysterical laugh.
"Your protection? For a broken-down waitress and a sick bastard?"
Christian’s eyes flared with madness.
"You’re slipping, Moretti! You’ve grown weak!"
Christian raised the gun from Leo’s temple, pointing it directly at Lorenzo’s
heart.
"NO!" I screamed.
In that fraction of a second, three things happened at once.
Leo bit down furiously on Christian’s arm with all the strength left in his
small jaws.
Christian yelped in pain, his aim jerking to the side.
Lorenzo didn't draw his weapon.
He surged forward like an unleashed black panther, throwing himself across the
small hallway to shield Leo and me with his own body.
BANG!
The gunshot echoed deafeningly in the narrow apartment.
A smell of burning gunpowder and scorched flesh filled the air.
Lorenzo grunted, a deep, guttural sound of agony tearing from his throat.
Blood—thick, dark, and hot—splattered across my face and uniform.
Lorenzo’s heavy frame crashed down over Leo and me, pinning us safely beneath
his broad shoulders.
Above us, Christian Vance cocked the hammer back for a second shot, a murderous
May you like
grin splitting his face.
"Die, Moretti!" Christian roared.
