Chapter 6 - The Greenhouse Ambush
Within twenty minutes, the quiet morning air of Westchester was shattered by the muffled cracks of suppressed gunfire echoing from the direction of the western lake.
From the third-floor window, I watched through binoculars as shadowy figures in tactical gear moved methodically through the overgrown shrubs surrounding the glass greenhouse. Flocks of startled birds erupted from the tree line, circling wildly against the pale morning sky.
Lily stood beside me on a small footstool, pressing her little nose against the cold glass. “Mommy, are those the bad guys playing hide and seek?”
“Yes, sweetie,” I murmured, pulling her back slightly behind the heavy wall paneling. “Just stay close to Mommy.”
The gunfire stopped as suddenly as it had started. Silence descended over the estate once again, heavier and more menacing than before.
Ten minutes later, the heavy iron doors of the third-floor command center burst open. Vincenzo walked in, his tactical vest dusted with dirt and leaf debris, dragging a man by the collar of his shirt.
The man stumbled forward and crashed onto his knees before Dominic’s desk. It was Thomas. His catering uniform was torn, blood trickling from a deep laceration across his forehead, and his eyes were wide with primal, unadulterated terror.
Dominic didn't rush toward him. He walked slowly out of his office alcove, his movements measured and terrifyingly calm. He stopped a few feet away from Thomas, looking down at the cringing man the way a hawk looks at a trapped mouse.
“Thomas,” Dominic said softly, his voice cutting through the quiet room like a scalpel. “You’ve worked for my family for four years. I paid for your mother’s medical treatments. I ensured your brother got out of Rikers. And this is how you repay me?”
Thomas sobbed, pressing his palms flat against the hardwood floor. “Boss, I had no choice! They threatened my family! They said if I didn't slip the toxin into the boy's cake, my wife and daughter would never see the sun again!”
Dominic didn't blink. “Who?”
“I don't know their names!” Thomas cried, choking on his own tears. “They wore masks, they called me on encrypted burners! They just told me it was a slow-acting sedative, not a lethal poison! They swore nobody would die!”
“A sedative?” Dominic laughed—a cold, humorless sound that sent a chill straight down my spine. “For a severe peanut allergy? A single microgram closes an eight-year-old’s airway within minutes. You didn't give him a sedative, Thomas. You signed his death warrant.”
“I swear to God—”
“Save your prayers for someone who cares,” Dominic interrupted, turning to Vincenzo. “Take him down to the lower cellar. Make him remember every single person who spoke to him on those encrypted phones.”
As Vincenzo dragged the screaming, thrashing man out of the room, Dominic turned slowly toward me. The fury in his eyes had subsided, replaced by something far more dangerous: cold, calculated vengeance.
“It wasn't a random hit,” Dominic said, walking toward the window. “It was a message from the Russian Syndicate in Queens. They’ve been trying to muscle in on our port shipping routes for months.”
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“And they used your son to break you,” I whispered.
“Yes,” Dominic replied, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Which means this war is just beginning. And you and Lily are standing right in the middle of the crossfire.”
