Chapter 11 - Whispers in the Salty Air
The town of Baker’s Cove was an isolated claw of rock and timber clinging to the coast, survived by four fishing trawlers, a cannery that ran three months a year, and a single grocery store that doubled as the post office.
Dominic drove his battered Ford pickup down the switchbacks at noon, the bed of the truck rattling with bags of cement he didn't need. Every mirror in the cab was adjusted not for traffic, but for sightlines along the treeline. The hemlocks stood thick and impassive, their dark needles dripping mist.
He parked outside *Miller’s General Supply*. The bell above the door jingled cheerily as he pushed it open, but the sound felt loud and intrusive to Dominic’s ears.
Behind the counter, Old Man Miller was sorting parcels with arthritic, deliberate hands. The radio behind the register was murmuring low static and country music.
"Afternoon, Dominic," Miller grunted, peering over horn-rimmed glasses. "Brought in that half-inch marine ply you were asking about. Sits in the lean-to out back."
"Thanks, George," Dominic said. He walked toward the register, picking up a tin of salt pork and a box of roofing nails from the shelf, setting them down with measured calm. "Quiet morning?"
"Quiet enough. Weather brought in a squall from the south." Miller licked a thumb and flipped through a bundle of envelopes. "Though had a pair of out-of-towners in here round six this morning. Lost, they said. Driving a black sedan with out-of-state tags. Asked where the lighthouse road branched off."
Dominic did not freeze. A lesser man would have stiffened, but Dominic’s body had been forged in ballrooms where poison flowed in vintage wine and boardrooms where signatures were signed in blood. His hands remained loose, resting lightly on the counter.
"Lighthouse road?" Dominic asked casually. "That's private land. Road washes out past the bluff."
"Told 'em so," Miller nodded, shaking his head. "Told 'em there wasn't nothing out that way except the old light and that cottage you and your girl fixed up. They bought two cartons of foreign smokes, paid in cash, and turned around."
*Foreign smokes.*
Dominic felt the cold venom of his former life seep back into his veins. It was like an old coat he had tried to burn, only to find it hanging in his closet, tailored perfectly to his shoulders.
"City folks don't know the gravel," Dominic murmured. "Did they leave toward the highway?"
"Headed south. Toward the marina, I reckon."
Dominic paid with exact change, picked up his nails, and walked out into the pale noon sun. He didn't return to his truck immediately. Instead, he stepped into the alley between the hardware store and the bait shop, pulling a cheap, prepaid flip-phone from his interior pocket.
He had kept this phone in the hollowed-out base of his tool chest for fourteen months, never turning it on, never putting the battery in until now.
He snapped the battery into place and hit power. The tiny LCD screen blinked to life. He dialed a string of eleven numbers memorized years ago—a ghost number routed through three burner servers in Jersey.
It rang once. Twice. Three times.
On the fourth ring, the line clicked. No hello. No breathing. Just the muffled hum of high-end air conditioning and the distinct, distant chime of an elevator bell.
"Speak," came the cold, measured voice on the other end.
"Dante," Dominic said.
A heavy pause settled over the line. The silence stretched so long Dominic wondered if the call had been rerouted to an intercept. Then, a low exhale escaped the speaker.
"Boss?" Dante’s voice lost its polished composure for a fraction of a second. "Jesus Christ. Where the hell are you calling from?"
"I asked you for one thing when I walked out," Dominic said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying the terrifying resonance that had once made capos drop to their knees in the basement of the St. Jude Hotel. "I told you to clean the books, bury the ledger, and keep Marco Moretti in the dirt."
Dante cursed under his breath. "Dominic, listen to me. Marco is dead. You took his head off in the warehouse before you disappeared. We buried him in the concrete foundation of the new harbor development."
"Then who is driving a black sedan through my town buying Sobranies, Dante?" Dominic hissed. "Who is taking photographs of my house from three miles out at sea?"
The silence that followed was suffocating.
"Dominic," Dante whispered, the confidence completely bleeding out of his tone. "Marco had a younger brother. Lucian. He was running the syndicate's bank accounts in Zurich. He came back to the city three weeks ago. And he didn't come back for the money. He came back with mercenaries who don't answer to our families. He’s liquidating everything just to hire hunters."
Dominic closed his eyes. The wind off the ocean blew cold against his forehead, carrying the scent of salt and imminent slaughter.
"He knows," Dominic stated flatly.
May you like
"He spent five million dollars on federal wiretap records and toll-booth cameras," Dante confessed, his breath shallow. "Dominic... get Fiona. Get the boy. Get the hell out of there right now."
***
