Chapter 8 - The Lion’s Den
Returning to Portland wasn't the end of the storm; it was the calm before the gale.
Even though Salvatore Moretti had been broken emotionally in his Lake Forest library, the syndicate he built was not an obedient machine. In the underworld, when an old lion shows weakness, the younger jackals don't mourn—they bite.
"It's Vincent Moretti," Marcus said as he picked me up at the Portland private hangar at dawn. The Maybach cut through the thick Pacific Northwest fog. "Salvatore's nephew. When news leaked from Chicago that the old man signed over the patent rights and backed down on the West Coast, Vincent called an emergency council of capos."
"Vincent was always an idiot with a loud gun," I remarked, watching the rain streak horizontally across the armored glass.
"An idiot with forty loyal triggermen currently bunkered across the Columbia River," Marcus corrected. "Vincent doesn't care about the girl's health. He cares about pride. He thinks Salvatore went soft because of age. He announced to the Chicago crews that he's bringing Emma back himself—and that he’s taking your head to put on Salvatore’s desk to claim the leadership."
"He's ambitious," I said, a dangerous chill settling behind my eyes. "Let's see if his stomach can handle what his mouth ordered."
When we arrived at the West Hills estate, the house was alive with the gentle, mundane magic of childhood.
In the sunlit conservatory, a white board had been set up on an easel. Joshua was showing Emma how to spell her new name.
"E-M-M-A," Josh said proudly, writing in wobbly purple dry-erase marker. "A-N-D-E-R-S-O-N. See? Now you have the same letters on your backpack as me!"
Emma sat with her knees tucked into her oversized pink sweater, tracing the letters with her index finger. When she heard my footsteps, she turned.
A bright, unhesitating smile broke across her face—a smile that hadn't existed four days ago. She scrambled off her chair and ran across the Persian rug, throwing her tiny arms around my legs.
"Daniel!" she cried.
The tension in my spine, the exhaustion of the red-eye flight from Chicago, the lingering stench of cigar smoke and hospital antiseptic—all of it melted away. I knelt down, lifting her effortlessly into my arms.
"How was your morning, little star?" I asked, tapping her nose.
"Mrs. Gable made blueberry pancakes," she whispered conspiratorially into my ear. "And Josh let me have his syrup. But I didn't hide any bread today. Not even a crumb."
"Good," I said, holding her close, feeling the light, rapid thump of her little heart against my chest. A heart we were going to save, no matter how many men had to bleed to ensure it. "Because from now on, everything in this kitchen is yours whenever you want it."
"Daniel," Mrs. Gable called softly from the doorway, her expression guarded. "There is a courier delivery at the gate."
I set Emma down, kissing her forehead. "Go help Josh finish the drawing. I'll be right back."
I walked down to the security gatehouse. Marcus was already there, holding a plain wooden crate about the size of a shoebox. The bomb-sniffing dogs had cleared it, and the x-ray showed no explosives or wires.
"What's inside?" I asked.
Marcus pried open the lid with a combat knife.
Inside, resting on a bed of shredded newspaper, was a child's worn red mitten—the exact match to the one Emma had been wearing the night I found her in Pioneer Square, which had slipped off in the mud. Pinned to the mitten was a single handwritten note:
She belongs to Chicago. Deliver her to Pier 42 tonight, or we burn your city to the ground. – Vincent.
I looked at the red mitten. Small, dirty, frayed at the seams. A reminder of the months she spent freezing while predators watched from the shadows.
"Vincent thinks he's fighting a businessman," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper that made the guards in the gatehouse look down at the floor.
"What are your orders, Boss?" Marcus asked, his jaw set like iron.
"Call Captain Miller at the Port Authority," I commanded. "Tell him Pier 42 has a private industrial malfunction scheduled between 11:00 PM and 2:00 AM. Clear out the night watchmen. Shut off the harbor cameras."
May you like
Marcus’s eyes flared with grim satisfaction. "And the response team?"
"I don't want a response team, Marcus," I said, crushing Vincent's note in my fist. "I want an execution squad. If Vincent Moretti wants to see the lion's den, we’re going to lock the door behind him."
