Years After Leaving Her, the Mafia Boss Saw Her Again in a Hospital — And Froze

Two suppressed rounds punched through the fog. The second mercenary collapsed into the wet grass with dull thuds, his weapon discharging harmlessly into the dirt as his nervous system failed.

The third man—the rear scout—reacted with terrifying speed. He dove behind the stone birdbath Fiona had set up two weeks ago, spraying a burst of automatic fire that ripped through the cedar shingles of the cottage's wall. Splinters exploded into the air.

Dominic dropped flat, rolling into a shallow drainage ditch. Mud filled his nostrils and plastered against his cheek, cold and foul.

*He has high-caliber ammo,* Dominic calculated, listening to the hollow ping of ricochets against the stone foundation. *The floorboards inside are pine. If he sweeps low, the rounds will penetrate the pantry.*

The thought of a stray slug piercing the root cellar floor ignited a white-hot fury in Dominic’s chest. He didn't care about tactical retreats. He didn't care about surviving.

He pulled a smoke grenade from the dead soldier's webbing at his feet, popped the pin with his thumb, and lobbed it toward the driveway.

A thick, blinding cloud of gray phosphorus smoke billowed across the yard, caught in the coastal wind and rolling like a tidal wave across the lawn. The mercenary fired blindly into the smoke, emptying his magazine in a desperate sweep.

The click of the empty bolt echoed in the damp air.

*Two seconds to reload,* Dominic knew.

Dominic burst from the ditch like an unleashed beast. He closed the fifteen-yard gap in the blink of an eye, clearing the stone wall just as the mercenary brought a fresh magazine toward his rifle's well.

The man looked up, his eyes widening behind his ballistic glasses as he saw Dominic’s face—a visage carved from pure, unadulterated vengeance.

Dominic hit him with the weight of all two hundred and ten pounds of his frame. They crashed into the gravel. Dominic grabbed the man’s tactical helmet, slammed his skull twice against the granite curb, and pinned his throat to the earth with his forearm.

The mercenary gagged, blood bubbling from his nose, his fingers clawing uselessly at Dominic’s thick wrists.

"Who sent you?" Dominic growled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that belonged to the underworld.

The man coughed, teeth stained crimson. "Go... go to hell, Russo."

Dominic shifted his weight, his thumb finding the carotid nerve cluster beneath the jawline, pressing until the man began to convulse in agony. "You have five seconds before I tear your windpipe out of your neck with my bare hands. Who is on the boat?"

"Nobody!" the man gasped, weeping from the pressure. "The boat... it was just transport! Lucian... Lucian is in the city! He’s at the docks! He said if we didn't report by sundown, he’d burn Dante’s district to the ground!"

"How many teams?" Dominic demanded.

"Just... just us! Five of us! Two at the roadblock on the highway... three here!"

Dominic didn't hesitate. A swift, decisive strike to the temple rendered the man unconscious.

Dominic rose, breathing heavily, the rain beginning to fall in earnest now, washing the blood from his knuckles. He looked around the ruined sanctuary. The pristine white siding of the cottage was shredded by bullet holes. The lawn was scarred with spent brass, blood, and smoke residue.

The illusion was shattered. Baker’s Cove was dead.

He walked up the porch steps, kicked the splinters aside, and went into the kitchen. He knelt by the pantry door and tapped three times with his knuckle—a rhythmic, specific cadence.