Chapter 3 - FIRE IN THE TOWER
Red emergency floodlights snapped on along the baseboards.
The crimson glow painted the penthouse in blood.
“Down!” Dominic barked.
His arm hooked around my waist, lifting me off my feet.
He threw us both behind the heavy oak credenza against the interior wall.
A hail of high-caliber rifle fire shattered the panoramic glass.
Thousands of glass shards rained across the room like crystalline hail.
The wind from the river roared through the gaping hole.
Rain blew inside, soaking the Persian rugs.
“South stairwell!” a voice shouted from the corridor outside.
Gunfire rattled through the double entrance doors.
Wood splinters exploded into the hallway.
Dominic held me pinned beneath his chest.
His heart hammered against my ribs—fast, heavy, but perfectly steady.
“Stay flat,” he ordered into my hair.
“Who is it?” I gasped, coughing on plaster dust.
“Vincent brought Bianchi’s soldiers into my lobby,” Dominic said.
He leaned around the corner of the credenza and fired three rapid shots.
A man screamed in the hallway.
A heavy body collapsed against the doorframe.
Leo was kneeling by the conference door, firing controlled bursts from a submachine gun.
“They cut the main elevator cables, boss!” Leo shouted over the gunfire.
“They’re coming up the service stairs!”
Dominic checked his magazine.
“How many?”
“At least a dozen!”
Dominic looked down at me in the crimson light.
His thumb wiped a smudge of black soot from my cheek.
“Do you trust me, Mia?”
I stared into his eyes.
There was no fear in them.
Only absolute focus.
“I never trusted you, Dominic,” I answered honestly.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips.
“Fair enough.”
He grabbed my hand, pulling me to my feet.
“Keep your head between my shoulder blades.”
We darted across the ruined living room toward the private art gallery in the north wing.
Bullets chewed through the drywall behind us.
Paintings fell from the walls, canvases shredding under the barrage.
Dominic kicked open a hidden panel behind a massive framed oil portrait.
A narrow spiral staircase curved downward into the dark.
“A fire exit?” I asked, breathless.
“A maintenance chute to the underground transit vaults,” he said.
“Arthur Thorne designed it when he built the tower twenty years ago.”
Leo reached the threshold, blood running down his left arm.
“Boss, I’ll hold the stairwell,” Leo said.
“No,” Dominic snapped. “We move together.”
“Someone has to blow the gas line in the kitchen, or they’ll be on your back before you hit the street,” Leo argued.
Leo held up a small remote detonator.
Dominic stared at his oldest friend.
For the first time, I saw grief crack Dominic’s stone exterior.
“Three minutes, Leo,” Dominic said, his voice thick.
“Three minutes is plenty, boss. Take care of the girl.”
Leo turned back toward the hallway, his weapon barking into the smoke.
Dominic shoved me into the spiral staircase.
He slammed the steel door shut behind us and engaged the manual deadbolts.
We descended in total darkness.
The iron steps were slick with moisture.
My breath tore through my lungs.
Above us, a massive concussive roar shook the concrete chute.
The kitchen had detonated.
The air pressure slammed into my ears, making my head spin.
Dominic didn't stop.
He carried me down the final ten steps into a concrete tunnel beneath Tribeca.
The smell of ozone, damp stone, and old diesel fuel filled the air.
At the end of the corridor sat an unmarked black sedan.
The headlights flicked on.
Blinding us.
A figure stepped from behind the open driver’s door.
He wore a tailored gray overcoat and held an umbrella over his head.
Gabriel Bianchi.
And stepping out from the passenger side was Vincent Russo.
Vincent was smiling.
May you like
He held a silver revolver in his gloved hand.
“Welcome to the basement, big brother,” Vincent said.
