Chapter 3 - The Safe House on the Cliff
Three miles down the jagged Long Island coastline, hidden beneath a canopy of pine trees and sheer granite cliffs, sat an old stone cottage. It had been built by Lorenzo’s grandfather seventy years ago as an emergency sanctuary, completely detached from the family’s digital grid.
Inside, the living room smelled of pine needles, rubbing alcohol, and iron.
Lorenzo lay on a leather sofa near a roaring fireplace. His shirt had been cut away, revealing deep purple contusions across his ribs and thick white bandages wrapped tightly around his torso and wrists. Dr. Ricci was finishing a suture on Lorenzo’s shoulder, his hands remarkably steady for his age.
“Two broken ribs, severe dehydration, and nerve damage in his left wrist,” Dr. Ricci reported, stepping back and wiping his hands on a towel. “He was injected with a paralytic agent, Marco. That’s why he couldn't fight back when they grabbed him from his bedroom.”
Marco stood by the window, peeking through the closed blinds with a pair of high-powered binoculars. “Vincent used a insider. Someone who knew Lorenzo’s private night routine.”
Sophia sat in an armchair by the hearth, wrapping a warm wool blanket around Emma’s shoulders. The little girl had finally fallen asleep, her thumb tucked into her mouth, still holding the broken pink scissors in her tiny fist.
Lorenzo groaned, pushing himself up into a sitting position despite Dr. Ricci’s protest. He looked over at Sophia, his dark eyes burning with an intense, unyielding light.
“Sophia,” Lorenzo said softly, his voice gravelly.
Sophia stood up and walked over to his side. “You should rest, Mr. DeLuca.”
“Lorenzo,” he corrected gently. “You saved my life today, Sophia. You and Emma. If you had called Vincent... if Emma hadn't found me...”
“She was looking for Biscotti,” Sophia said, a tear escaping her eye and running down her cheek. “The cat got out. That’s the only reason we were down there.”
Lorenzo looked at the sleeping child, his expression softening into something remarkably gentle—a stark contrast to the ruthless mob boss the world knew.
“Fate moves in strange ways,” Lorenzo murmured. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out the broken steel pocket watch Emma had seen beneath his chair. The glass was shattered, the hands frozen at 2:43.
“This was my father’s,” Lorenzo whispered, tracing the cracked glass with his thumb. “Vincent knocked it out of my vest when his men dragged me downstairs. He thought he was breaking my legacy.”
Lorenzo looked up at Marco. “Who else is with us?”
“Frank Corradi is suspicious, but he’s holding his tongue until he sees proof,” Marco replied. “The rest of the captains are terrified of Vincent. Vincent controls the family bank accounts, the street enforcers, and the corrupt precinct captains in Queens.”
“Then we cut off his head,” Lorenzo said flatly. “We don't fight a war in the streets, Marco. We strike at the table.”
May you like
“How?” Marco asked. “You’re in no condition to shoot your way into the estate. Vincent has fifty men patrolling the gates.”
Lorenzo turned his gaze to Sophia. “Vincent thinks he’s hunting a helpless housekeeper and a toddler. He doesn't know that the smallest witness in New York holds the knife to his throat.”
