7. Dominic
7
DOMINIC
It’s been weeks of planning, and now Franco Fiore has finally hit our turf. The rush is real. Ever since he landed at one of the smaller commercial airports outside of Boston, and we’ve realized he’s given us the slip, adrenaline has been crashing through my veins.
Now, he has Gigi and Carla Trapani in his hold, and fuck knows, Stephano is losing his mind.
Good. I need my brother at his peak when he deals with Franco. Over the weeks, I’ve watched Steph. Everything to this point had been eating him. His past, the Don, the fuckup that was every single one of our youths, and then the love he has for Gigi Trapani. A deep, immovable love that makes me want to step away from it, because it hurts so fucking much. A type of love that shakes the world and makes men do stupid fucking shit.
Yep, protecting his wife is my brother’s only goal, and Steph’s final day of retribution has come. This is what he needs, and I will hand it to him on a platter.
But first, we need to ensure the safety of the women, and somehow the numbers have grown from two to three.
We didn’t expect for Franco’s entourage to contain an unknown female he strong-armed out of the private jet airport and shoved into the back seat of a taxi as if she were a piece of meat. That security footage spoke volumes. Fuck knows, it riled me up. All I want is for her to be safe. I don’t care who she is, but to be manhandled like that gave me flashbacks of Mom and the Don. That airport staff didn’t pull them aside for intimate partner abuse just goes to show how little people care, and how negligent Franco has become. The man is mental, but this we knew.
Mental or not, I give anybody who treats a woman like this a bullet in the head.
I’m in a truck with Benedict, our sniper rifles loaded. My phone pings with the latest location share, and I quirk a brow.
“Dumb fuck.” I can’t help but smirk. “I thought this was going to be a challenge, but it’s going to be a walk in the park.”
I turn my screen towards Benedict, and his eyes widen before he meets my gaze. “Gotta be kidding me?”
“Nope.”
Every scheme we hoped would catch Franco failed, but he has gone and picked his own deathtrap. His van is heading straight for our abandoned warehouses on the Boston harbor’s periphery, and we couldn’t have asked for a better outcome.
For the next minute, we’re on a video call with Matteo and Stephano, strategizing. Once our plans are in place, I instruct the driver to speed up. He finally slows down to a quiet crawl as we enter the dead-end road with the row of warehouses the Don used for his import and export business.
“We keep the woman for last if we kill her at all.” The plan is to eliminate Franco’s team with a few neat shots and leave Stephano to end Franco. It looks like he only brought the woman along as a human shield, and I don’t want to take out an innocent thrown into this mess. “She might come in handy.”
Benedict nods as his leg jolts up and down. He isn’t nervous; he’s pumped. My youngest brother doesn’t get enough action, and I can’t deny him the thrill of the chase.
“Turn and stop here on the side,” I say as Franco’s white van pulls into a warehouse, at least two hundred yards from us.
The driver parks, and we wait twenty seconds, scouting the surroundings for unwanted traffic. Behind us, farther down the road, one of our vehicles has pulled up to block anybody from coming this way.
As soon as we’re sure the coast is clear, we pull down our masks and clamber out of the truck. We head for the fire escape connecting a set of offices attached to the warehouse bordering the street. From the top of the staircase, it is easy to clamber to the roof and make our way to the structure in the middle.
None of us has been here for ages, but nothing much has changed. The flat roof only has the slightest incline to guide rain to the gutters, but it’s rusted and pock-marked with holes. It’s basically a deathtrap of its own, but it will hold. It must hold, one last time.
We crouch down and soft-foot it along one of the bolted metal beams that offers sturdy support, and when we reach the edge of the middle warehouse, lower down to a leopard crawl until we spot holes big enough to look down into the empty space. What a dump. Farther along the roof, it gets even worse as much wider gaps have peeled open where the bolts have rusted away.
I signal to Benedict to stay behind me as I make my way forward until we both have opportunity to look down at the same time. My breathing stalls. Inside the warehouse, Gigi Trapani—Steph’s wife —is on her knees, mouth taped and hands tied, legs bound. Her sister, Carla, is lying on the floor, motionless. Fuck .
A good twenty feet away, Franco has jerked the other woman to his side. Her hands are tied, and she has duct tape covering her mouth, but now, he’s doing something with the contents of an open case… Is that cotton wool? What the fuck, dude?
Franco clearly has no idea we’re here.
I shift my focus from the crazy to the two other men in the warehouse. One is picking Carla up and carrying her across to where some barrels are stacked in a corner. Well, that isn’t going to happen now, is it?
The other man leans against their van. Probably the driver. I signal to Benedict. We don’t need words. We take half a minute to position ourselves and our weapons, and in seconds, take out the two men.
Chaos doesn’t erupt. It’s even quieter now than it was before. Franco glances up, but he is slow in his disbelief as this new reality sinks in. He reaches for his gun, unsure where to shoot. The garage door starts to rattle open, and he homes in on it. We need one last distraction.
I pull my handgun from its holster and nod to Benedict. I aim, knowing the distance between everybody down there is far enough if I shoot with precision. As I fire several shots in a row, Benedict runs across the roof. We repeat the action, but this time, he shoots, and I run.
I kneel down, peering through a hole. Franco is frazzled, unsure which side the bullets came from, and those three seconds cost him. Benedict is back in position already, his sniper rifle pointing to our target as Stephano, Matteo, and Luca walk in, coordinated, with bodyguards flanking them. So many guns are pointed at Franco, he stands no chance.
I don’t look at the others, though. I watch on in horror as the unknown woman slowly crumbles to the floor.