Chapter 8 - The Strike at Harbor Lights
The war came to a head on a cold Tuesday night in early October.
Reports reached the estate that Sal Marcone—the eighty-year-old patriarch of the Marcone family—had called an emergency meeting of all Five Families at a neutral seafood restaurant called Harbor Lights on the Jersey shore.
The official purpose was to mediate the boundary dispute between Moretti and Marcone.
The unofficial purpose was to set an ambush for Dante.
"It’s a trap," Julian warned as we stood in the private armory beneath the garage, surrounded by rows of automatic rifles, tactical vests, and suppressor units. "Marcone has hired six former Serbian mercenaries. They've rented the upper floor of the warehouse across the street from the restaurant."
Dante was standing before a long mirror, adjusting the cuffs of a heavy, bulletproof Kevlar suit jacket.
"I know," Dante said calmly.
He turned toward me, standing near the door in a heavy wool coat Julian had provided.
"You are coming," Dante said.
I blinked, taking a step backward. "To a shootout? Are you insane?"
"It is not a shootout, Cara," Dante corrected, picking up a small, sleek 9mm pistol from the table, checking the magazine with a practiced click, and slipping it into his inner coat pocket. "It is a performance. And every performance requires an audience."
"Don," Julian interjected, his voice rising in rare protest. "Bringing a civilian into a hot zone—"
"She stays in the armored Suburban with two team members three blocks away," Dante commanded. "If things go wrong, she is the secondary extraction point."
He walked over to me, stopping so close I could hear the faint rustle of his Kevlar jacket beneath his wool coat.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, heavy silver key on a thin chain, and placed it in my palm, closing my fingers around it.
"This opens the wall safe in my study," Dante whispered, his thumb rubbing the back of my hand. "If I do not return to the car by midnight, take the Suburban to the private airstrip in Teterboro. The pilot has orders to fly you to Zurich. Inside that safe is a passport under the name Clara Vance and three million dollars in untraceable bearer bonds."
I looked down at the silver key, my throat tight, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"Why are you giving me this?" I rasped.
Dante looked down into my eyes, his storm-grey irises softer than I had ever seen them before.
May you like
"Because if I die tonight, Cara," he murmured, "I want the only good thing I ever found on that mountain to survive."
Before I could answer, before I could tell him that he was a crazy, brutal man who had ruined my life, he turned on his heel and walked toward the waiting armored cars.
