Chapter 8 - THE PURGE OF BALTIMORE
By 4:00 AM, the seventh floor of St. Jude’s Hospital had been entirely cordoned off by thirty heavily armed Marchetti soldiers loyal to Dante.
Dominic—a towering man with a scarred face and a long black leather coat—stood inside the hospital room, surveying the blood-stained floor. Two soldiers were dragging Marco’s body out through the service elevator, while Vincent Cole sat zip-tied to a heavy wooden chair in the corner, his face bruised and swollen.
A private doctor hired by Dominic was busily stitching Dante’s torn abdomen on the bed, injecting localized pain medication.
Dante sat upright, wearing a dark wool sweater Dominic had brought him, a glass of straight scotch resting in his hand. He looked at Vincent.
“Who else?” Dante asked quietly.
Vincent spat blood onto the floor, refusing to speak.
Dominic stepped forward, drawing a long combat knife, but Dante raised a single hand to stop him.
Dante looked at Elena, who was sitting silently in the corner of the room, holding a warm cup of coffee Dominic’s men had brought her.
“Elena,” Dante said softly. “The ledger sheets you pieced together last week. Which captains were listed on the offshore transfers?”
Elena set her coffee cup down. “Captain Vane, Captain Torrio, and the terminal chief at Pier 7. They received three hundred thousand dollars each from the Moretti account on Thursday afternoon.”
Vincent’s eyes widened in absolute shock. He stared at the maid in horror. “You... you read the offshore codes? You don't even know banking systems!”
“My late husband was an accountant for the dock workers’ union, Mr. Cole,” Elena said calmly, her eyes fixed on Vincent’s face. “I spent seven years organizing financial ledgers before you ever met me.”
Dante let out a low, dark laugh that turned into a coughing fit. He looked at Dominic.
“You heard her,” Dante commanded. “Bring Vane, Torrio, and the terminal chief to the warehouse on Pier 14. Tell them Vincent has called an emergency victory meeting.”
Dominic bowed his head cleanly. “And the Moretti family, boss?”
Dante drained his glass of scotch, his eyes flaring with a lethal, terrifying light that had been absent for three days.
“By sunrise,” Dante declared, “the Moretti family will no longer exist in the city of Baltimore.”
Dominic nodded, turning to leave with six armed men, dragging Vincent Cole out of the room by his collar.
The hospital room cleared out, leaving only two soldiers standing guard outside the heavy oak doors. Silence returned to the room—not a cold, medical silence, but the heavy, quiet calm that follows a violent storm.
Dante turned his head to look at Elena. She sat in the armchair, her hands wrapped around her warm coffee cup, her eyes looking exhausted beyond measure.
“Come here,” Dante said softly.
Elena hesitated, then stood up and walked to the side of his bed.
Dante reached out his hand—the heavy, scarred hand of a man who had brought death to dozens of enemies—and gently took her small, cold hand in his.
“You saved my life,” Dante said, his rasping voice trembling slightly. “Twice.”
“I only did what needed to be done, Mr. Marchetti,” she whispered.
“Dante,” he corrected gently. “My name is Dante.”
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She looked down at their joined hands, her heart pounding against her ribs, and for the first time in eleven months, she let down her guard completely.
“Dante,” she whispered softly.
