Chapter 6 - The Bellini Retaliation
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The warm glow of Luca’s generosity could not completely erase the looming shadow of the Bellini family.
By two o’clock in the morning, Luca’s personal driver had escorted Emma and me back to our small third-floor apartment in Bridgeport.
The neighborhood was quiet, shrouded in thick river fog and the low hum of distant expressway traffic.
Emma collapsed onto her twin bed, still wearing her graduation cap, exhausted by the emotional whirlwind of the evening.
I stood in our cramped kitchen, holding the two-hundred-thousand-dollar check between my shaking fingers.
It felt surreal, like a fragile dream that might dissolve into smoke the moment the morning sun rose.
Suddenly, the harsh glare of headlights flashed across our living room blinds.
The low, rumbling growl of a heavy V8 engine idled directly beneath our apartment window.
A knot of cold dread tightened in the pit of my stomach.
I crept toward the window, pulling back one slat of the plastic blinds to peer down into the street.
A sleek black Cadillac Escalade was parked illegally across our driveway, its tinted windows hiding the occupants inside.
Two tall men in dark trench coats stepped out of the vehicle, their hands tucked conspicuously inside their coat pockets.
They didn't look like ordinary street thugs; they carried the cold, professional posture of mafia enforcers.
My breath caught in my throat as they crossed the narrow street and pushed open our building’s rusty front gate.
Seconds later, heavy footsteps began ascending the creaking wooden staircase outside our apartment door.
“Emma,” I whispered urgently, rushing into her bedroom and shaking her shoulder.
“Emma, wake up, sweetheart, now.”
Emma blinked sleepily, rubbing her eyes.
“Mom? What’s wrong?”
“Get into the bathroom and lock the door,” I instructed, keeping my voice as low as a ghost.
Before Emma could ask another question, three thunderous knocks rattled our thin apartment door on its hinges.
The sound shook the picture frames hanging along our hallway wall.
“Caroline Hayes!” a rough, raspy voice shouted through the wood.
“Open the door! Don Bellini wants to have a word with the maid who forgot her place!”
Emma gasped, scrambling off the bed and backing toward the bathroom just as I had told her.
My heart pounded against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I grabbed my cell phone from the kitchen counter with trembling hands.
I didn’t call the local police; in our neighborhood, everyone knew the Bellini family owned the precinct captains.
Instead, my thumb hovered over the business card Luca had pressed into my hand before we left the restaurant.
His private direct number was written on the back in bold, black ink.
I dialed the ten digits, praying to God that the powerful mob boss would answer a late-night call from a maid.
The phone rang once.
It rang twice.
On the third ring, the heavy apartment door shuddered violently as a boot slammed into the deadbolt from the outside.
The wood began to splinter around the lock.
“Hayes! Open this damn door before we take it off the hinges!” the enforcer bellowed.
Just as panic threatened to paralyze me completely, the call connected.
“Caroline?” Luca’s deep, steady voice filled my ear, cutting through my terror like an anchor in a raging sea.
“Mr. Moretti, they’re here,” I cried, sliding down against the kitchen cabinets.
“The Bellinis are breaking into my home!”
On the other end of the line, I heard the sharp, metallic rack of a firearm slide chambering a round.
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“Stay on the floor, Caroline,” Luca said, his tone chillingly calm and deadly serious.
“Look out your window in thirty seconds.”
