Chapter 8
We spent the next 48 hours planning.
The safe house was a blur of maps, guns, and whispered conversations.
Jax’s men ran surveillance on the Trump Tower, taking photos of every entrance, every guard, every shift change.
Sofia built fake IDs for all of us, new names, new backstories, good enough to fool any cop in the city.
Dominic spent hours on the phone, calling in favors from every man who owed him, every enemy of the Morettis who wanted to see Vito fall.
I spent my time with Mia.
Feeding her.
Playing with her.
Memorizing every inch of her face, because a part of me was scared I wouldn’t come back.
That I’d die in that penthouse, and she’d grow up not remembering me.
The night before the hit, Dominic came to the room I was sharing with Mia.
He closed the door softly behind him.
He was holding two glasses of whiskey.
He handed one to me.
"For the nerves," he said.
I took it.
I didn’t drink.
I just held it, watching the amber liquid swirl in the glass.
"You don’t have to do this tomorrow," he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "You can take Mia. Go to the airport. I’ve got a private jet waiting. It’ll take you anywhere in the world you want. New Zealand. Brazil. Somewhere Vito will never find you. You can start over. Live a normal life."
I looked at him.
"A normal life?" I said. "My husband is dead. My boys are dead. The only normal I ever had is gone. And even if I ran? Even if I got away? Vito would still be alive. He’d still be killing people. Trafficking kids. Destroying families. I can’t live with that. I won’t."
I set the glass down on the nightstand.
"I’m going in there tomorrow. And I’m not coming out until Vito Moretti is dead. Do you understand?"
Dominic stared at me.
Then he reached out.
He brushed a strand of hair off my face.
His hand was warm.
Calloused.
I leaned into it, without thinking.
"You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met," he said quietly.
"Brave people don’t shake when they hold a gun," I said, my voice breaking. "Brave people don’t lie awake at night scared they’re going to fail the people they love."
"You’re not going to fail," he said. "We’re going to win. Tomorrow. For Lila. For Mark. For the boys. For Mia. We’re going to win."
He leaned closer.
I could smell his cologne.
Woodsmoke and pine.
I could feel the heat of his body against mine.
His eyes dropped to my lips.
I closed my eyes.
A soft cry from the crib stopped us.
Mia was awake.
Dominic pulled away, standing up.
He downed his whiskey in one gulp.
"Get some sleep," he said, his voice rough. "We move at 5 a.m. Tomorrow, everything changes."
He left the room.
I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
My heart was pounding.
For the first time since Mark died, I didn’t feel alone.
I felt seen.
I felt loved.
And I was terrified that tomorrow, I’d lose it all.
5 a.m. came too fast.
We split into three teams.
Team one: Jax and three men, disguised as maintenance workers, going in through the service entrance to take out the basement guards and cut the power to the penthouse.
Team two: Sofia and two men, going in through the front entrance, disguised as hotel guests, to take out the lobby guards and secure the elevators.
Team three: Me, Dominic, and two of his best men, going up the back stairwell to the penthouse.
Mia stayed at the safe house with Rico and two guards, locked in the panic room, no way in, no way out.
I kissed her forehead before we left.
"I’ll be back," I whispered. "I promise."
The drive to the Trump Tower was silent.
Nobody spoke.
Nobody moved.
We pulled up to the service entrance at 5:28 a.m., right on schedule.
Jax and his men got out.
They walked through the door like they owned the place.
Five minutes later, the lights in the lobby flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then went out.
The signal.
Sofia’s team moved.
We waited two more minutes.
Then Dominic opened the car door.
"Let’s go," he said.
We ran across the street, slipping through the service entrance, up the back stairs, our boots silent on the concrete steps.
86 floors.
We climbed them fast, stopping every 10 floors to listen, to make sure no one was coming.
My legs burned.
My lungs screamed.
But I didn’t stop.
I couldn’t stop.
We reached the 86th floor at 6:01 a.m.
The door to the penthouse was unlocked.
Dominic pushed it open slowly.
The penthouse was dark.
Quiet.
The only sound was the hum of the city below.
We moved through the rooms, guns raised, checking every corner, every closet, every bathroom.
Empty.
All of it.
Nobody was there.
"Where is he?" Dominic whispered.
A voice came from the living room.
Old.
Rough.
Amused.
"Right here, Dominic. I’ve been waiting for you."
We walked into the living room.
Vito Moretti sat in a leather armchair by the window, an oxygen tank next to him, a gun in his hand.
20 of his men stood around him, all of them aiming guns at us.
Vito smiled.
May you like
A thin, cruel smile.
"You really thought I’d be here alone?" he said. "You really thought you could outsmart an old man? I’ve been killing men like you since before you were born, boy. Sit down. We need to talk."
