Chapter 8 - The Ambush
Peace in their world was always an illusion, a brief pause between thunderclaps.
Three weeks after the dinner in Red Hook, spring began to show its first tentative signs. The snow had melted from the coastline, replaced by bright green shoots rising through the dark garden soil.
Leo was thriving. His cheeks were round and pink, his speech had expanded into rapid, tumbling sentences, and he ran through the estate grounds like a normal, happy child.
On a bright Saturday morning, Clara decided to take Leo to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.
It had been Rico’s idea. “He needs to see the world, Clara,” Rico had said the night before, standing beside her at the kitchen counter as she packed Leo’s lunch. “He cannot grow up behind electric fences. With Dante and four men, he will be safe.”
The morning was glorious. The cherry blossoms were beginning to bud, their pale pink petals framing the winding stone paths. Leo ran ahead, chasing butterflies, his laughter bright and clear against the morning air.
Dante walked ten paces behind them, dressed in casual clothes, his sharp eyes scanning every passing tourist, every bench, every shadow. Two more security guards trailed further back, blending seamlessly with the weekend crowd.
Clara felt a profound, golden sense of peace. For two hours, she forgot about the guns. She forgot about the concrete walls and the snipers on the docks. She was just a woman enjoying a spring morning with a boy she had come to love as her own.
They reached the Japanese Hill-and-Pond Garden, a secluded area surrounded by dense bamboo groves and arched wooden bridges spanning a tranquil pond.
Suddenly, a loud, sharp pop echoed from the tree line.
Dante’s head snapped toward the sound. “Down! Clara, get down!”
Before Clara could react, a deafening crack shattered the tranquility of the garden.
The concrete lantern beside them exploded into a spray of pulverized stone.
Screams erupted from the tourists on the main path. People scattered in blind panic, knocking over strollers and trampling flowerbeds.
From the dense bamboo grove, three men in dark tactical gear and ballistic masks stepped out, raising automatic submachine guns.
They weren't trying to kidnap Leo. They were executing an ambush.
“Leo!” Clara shrieked.
She didn't think. She didn't calculate her odds of survival.
Clara threw herself forward across the stone pathway, wrapping her entire body around Leo, slamming him down behind the low granite balustrade of the arched bridge. She curled her spine over the three-year-old child, tucking his head into her chest, creating a human shield with her own flesh.
*Crack-crack-crack-crack!*
The air turned into a storm of lead and concrete dust. Bullets chewed into the stone railing right above Clara’s head, showering her hair and shoulders with razor-sharp debris.
Leo screamed in sheer terror, his small hands clutching the front of her jacket. “Clara! Clara!”
“I’ve got you!” Clara cried out, her eyes squeezed shut, bracing for the impact of a bullet. “I’ve got you, Leo! Don’t let go!”
Behind them, Dante erupted into action.
The bodyguard drew two concealed pistols, dropping to one knee, firing with terrifying, calculated precision. Two of the masked gunmen collapsed into the bamboo, but the third adjusted his aim directly toward the bridge where Clara and Leo were pinned.
Clara saw the black barrel swing toward them. She knew she couldn't move. She buried her face into Leo’s neck, whispering a desperate, silent prayer.
*Boom.*
The sound was different. Louder. Like a cannon shot.
The third gunman’s head snapped back violently, and his body crashed into the pond, turning the clear water crimson.
Clara gasped, looking up through the smoke.
Striding down the stone path, holding a heavy-caliber firearm with lethal, terrifying focus, was Ricardo Moretti.
He hadn't stayed at the estate. He had been trailing them in a secondary vehicle two blocks away, unable to bear the thought of his family out in the open without his personal guard.
Rico’s face was transformed into something ancient and demonic. The rage radiating from him was palpable, a suffocating force that parted the smoke. Behind him, four more Moretti enforcers swept through the bamboo, securing the perimeter with brutal efficiency.
Rico dropped his weapon to his side and sprinted toward the bridge.
“Clara!”
His voice broke, raw with an agony that sounded worse than a bullet wound. He dropped to his knees on the shattered concrete, his hands shaking violently as he grabbed Clara’s shoulders, pulling her up.
“Are you hit? Look at me! Are you hit?”
Clara blinked through the dust, her breathing ragged. She looked down at Leo. The boy was crying hysterically, covered in white stone dust, but there was no blood on him.
“He’s okay,” Clara sobbed, her voice trembling. “He’s okay, Rico. He’s not hurt.”
Rico let out a choked sound that was half-gasp, half-sob. He pulled both of them into his arms, crushing Clara and Leo against his chest in a desperate, suffocating embrace right in the middle of the ruined garden.
“You’re bleeding,” Rico whispered, his voice cracking as his fingers touched the side of her neck.
Clara reached up, feeling the warm, sticky fluid. A flying piece of sharp granite shrapnel had sliced a deep, two-inch gash along her collarbone.
Rico saw the blood.
A terrifying tremor went through the man. It was the same spot where Elena had been struck six months ago. The exact same wound.
“No,” Rico whispered, his eyes wide with rising madness. “No, no, no…”
“Rico, I’m fine!” Clara said, grabbing his face between her dusty hands, forcing his wild, panicked eyes to look into hers. “It’s just a scratch! Look at me! I’m alive! Leo is alive!”
Rico stared at her, his chest heaving like an animal that had just escaped a cage. He pressed his forehead against hers, breathing her in, his tears mixing with the dust and blood on her skin.
“You shielded him,” Rico whispered, his voice shaking with awe and terror. “You threw yourself over him.”
“Of course I did,” Clara cried softly. “He’s my boy too.”
Rico closed his eyes, his grip tightening around her waist until it almost hurt.
“Dante,” Rico said, his tone dropping from frantic husband to ruthless kingpin in a fraction of a second.
Dante stepped forward, his suit splattered with blood. “Boss?”
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“Find out who authorized this,” Rico said, and the coldness in his voice promised a slaughter that would stain the entire state. “And bring me their names before sunset.”
***
