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

The drive to the sheriff’s office in the center of Baker’s Cove was executed under the shroud of torrential rain. The sky had turned a bruising purple, the ocean pounding violently against the seawall as Dominic pulled the truck behind the municipal building.

Sheriff Tom Walker was a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties with a weathered face and sharp, suspicious eyes. When Dominic walked through the door carrying Leo wrapped in a wool blanket, with Fiona following close behind wearing a rain-slicked coat, Walker stood up from his desk immediately.

"Dominic? What the hell happened? We heard gunfire out by the bluffs twenty minutes ago."

Dominic set Leo down on the wooden bench and looked Walker dead in the eye.

"Someone from my past tracked me here, Tom," Dominic said, keeping his voice level. "They hit my house. Three are dead on my lawn. Two more are sitting in a sedan near Mile Marker 4."

Walker reached for his sidearm, his eyes widening. "Who are you, Russo?"

"A man who wants his family to live," Dominic replied without hesitation. "I don't expect you to fight my war. But I need you to lock this door, put Fiona and Leo in the holding cell with the reinforced steel gate, and give her a shotgun. If anyone who doesn't belong in this county steps through that door before I get back, you shoot them."

Walker looked at Fiona. "Fiona? Is this true?"

"Tom, please," Fiona said, her voice steady, pleading with the authority of a mother protecting her child. "Just keep us safe for two days. If you try to arrest him, the men coming behind him will slaughter this whole town."

Walker stared at Dominic, reading the lethal lethargy in the man’s posture. He had seen men like Dominic in Vietnam—men who had seen the bottom of the abyss and carried a piece of it back inside their ribcages.

"Forty-eight hours, Russo," Walker said, unlocking the weapon rack behind his desk and pulling down a Remington 870 12-gauge, handing it directly to Fiona along with a box of shells. "If you ain't back by then, I'm calling the state troopers, the FBI, and the National Guard."

Dominic nodded once. He turned to Leo, who was watching from the bench, clutching his little wooden boat.

"Hey, sailor," Dominic said, kneeling before him.

Leo reached out and touched the collar of Dominic’s coat. "Are you going to fight the bad pirates?"

"I'm going to make sure they never come near our harbor again," Dominic whispered. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against his son’s. "Listen to your mother. Protect her."

"I will," Leo said, a tiny tear rolling down his nose. "I have my ironclad."