Chapter 8 - The Shadow of the Cliff
The Stony Brook Lighthouse stood perched precariously on a jagged slate cliff overlooking the dark, churning waters of Long Island Sound. Fog rolled off the sea, thick and suffocating, wrapping around the rusted iron tower and the dilapidated wooden keeper's cottage beside it.
Three black Escalades cut their headlights half a mile down the narrow dirt track, coasting to a silent stop beneath the dripping pine trees.
Alessandro stepped out into the mist, followed by Victor and eight heavily armed Moretti enforcers.
“Sensors show two vehicles parked near the cottage,” Victor whispered, handing Alessandro a tactical thermal scanner. “There are at least six armed guards inside the perimeter.”
Alessandro looked through the thermal scope. Heat signatures glowed bright orange inside the cottage—and two faint, distinct signatures were located beneath the floorboards, in an underground cellar structure.
One adult. One child.
Alessandro felt his heart slam against his ribs with such violence it almost rendered him breathless. They were alive. After three long, excruciating years in the dark, they were down there.
“No heavy explosives,” Alessandro instructed his team in a deadly whisper. “Precision shots only. We clear the cottage room by room. If anyone threatens the cellar, put a bullet in their head immediately.”
“Understood, boss,” Victor replied, signaling the men to split into two tactical squads.
They moved like ghosts through the thick fog, hugging the tree line until they reached the rear wall of the keeper's cottage.
Inside, Lorenzo Valenti was frantically trying to bandage his leg wound while screaming at two guards who were packing duffel bags with cash and passports.
“Hurry up, you idiots!” Lorenzo barked, his face pale from blood loss. “Moretti’s team will be here any minute! We take the boat from the cove and leave for Canada!”
“What about the prisoners in the cellar, boss?” one guard asked.
“Leave them!” Lorenzo spat bitterly. “If Moretti finds this place, let him rot down there with them! Or better yet—” Lorenzo’s face twisted into a sickening grin. “Rig the fuel tanks in the shed. Once we hit the water, blow the whole cliff side to hell.”
Before the guard could respond, the rear door was kicked off its hinges with a tremendous CRASH!
“MORETTI TEAM! ON THE FLOOR!” Victor’s voice roared as flashbang grenades bounced across the wooden floorboards.
BANG-BANG-BANG!
Blinding white light and deafening sound exploded inside the cottage. Valenti’s guards were instantly disoriented, dropping their weapons as Moretti’s tactical squad flooded the building with lethal efficiency.
Short, controlled bursts of gunfire echoed through the cottage. Within forty seconds, all six of Valenti’s enforcers were neutralized on the floor.
Alessandro burst through the front door, sweeping his shotgun across the room.
Lorenzo, limping heavily, was trying to crawl toward a trapdoor in the corner of the kitchen floor, a detonator switch clutched in his bleeding hand.
“VALENTI!” Alessandro bellowed.
Lorenzo spun on his back, raising a small pistol.
BOOM!
Alessandro fired from the hip. The heavy shotgun blast struck Lorenzo’s arm, sending his gun and the detonator flying across the room, smashing against the brick fireplace.
Lorenzo shrieked in agony, clutching his shattered arm, backing up against the wall as Alessandro stalked toward him like a vengeful titan.
Alessandro kicked Lorenzo’s jaw, pinning the wounded mob boss against the baseboards with his heavy boot pressed against Valenti’s neck.
“It’s over, Lorenzo,” Alessandro growled, his voice deep, monstrous, filled with three years of accumulated rage.
“Go ahead... kill me...” Lorenzo choked out, bleeding from his mouth, grinning like a madman. “You’re too late, Alessandro... three years in a dark hole... they aren't the same people you lost... I broke them...”
Alessandro’s boot tightened on Lorenzo’s neck until the man’s eyes bulged, choking off his frantic breath.
“You didn't break them,” Alessandro whispered softly into Lorenzo’s ear. “Because I am taking them back. And you are going to spend the rest of your miserable life in a maximum-security black site, praying for the death I refuse to give you.”
Alessandro looked over his shoulder at Victor. “Call the federal prosecutor we own in Manhattan. Tell him I’m delivering Lorenzo Valenti, along with twenty years of tax fraud, murder confessions, and human trafficking evidence. Make sure he rots in a cage forever.”
“Consider it done, boss,” Victor said, pulling out zip-ties to bind the broken mob leader.
Alessandro turned his attention to the heavy wooden trapdoor in the corner of the kitchen floor.
His hands shook as he approached it. His breath caught in his throat. For three years, he had dreamed of this moment, prayed for it, cursed God for the lack of it.
He knelt down, unlatched the heavy iron padlock, and lifted the thick wooden door.
May you like
A damp, cold smell rose from the dark stone steps below.
“Isabella?” Alessandro called out, his voice trembling so hard it barely sounded like his own. “Arya?”
