Chapter 7 - The Siege of Marblehead
The storm reached its crescendo as our black convoy tore up the narrow, winding cliffside roads leading to the Marblehead lighthouse estate. Lightning split the ink-black sky, illuminating the churning Atlantic waves crashing violently against the sharp granite rocks fifty feet below.
The estate was a colonial stone mansion surrounded by heavy wrought-iron fencing. At the tip of the rocky promontory stood the decommissioned lighthouse, its beacon dark, but its lower observation deck glowing with yellow lantern light.
"They’ve barricaded the main gate," Marco reported through the SUV's radio. "We count at least twenty armed cartel mercenaries on the grounds."
"Ram the gate," Dante ordered coldly into his radio. "No survivors except Genevieve. I want her alive."
The lead armored truck accelerated, slamming into the ornate wrought-iron gates with a deafening metallic screech. The gate gave way, folding inward like tin foil, and the convoy flooded onto the estate grounds.
Gunfire immediately lit up the rainy night.
Mercenaries fired from the upper balconies of the mansion, their automatic rifles spraying bullets into the armored sides of our vehicles. Dante leaned out the window, his weapon barking twice with terrifying precision, dropping two snipers from the roof before our SUV had even skidded to a complete stop on the gravel driveway.
"Stay in the vehicle until the perimeter is clear," Dante commanded me, checking his magazine.
"Genevieve isn't in the house," I said, pointing toward the rocky path leading down to the lighthouse. "Look."
Through the torrential rain, illuminated by a flash of lightning, a solitary figure in a white trench coat was fleeing down the slippery stone staircase toward the sea. She carried a waterproof duffel bag, heading toward a black tactical zodiac boat waiting at the base of the cliffs.
"She’s making for the water," Dante growled.
"If she reaches that boat, she’s in international waters within twenty minutes," I warned.
Dante kicked open his door. "Cover me!"
He sprinted through the crossfire toward the cliffside path, reckless and lethal, his coat whipping in the gale-force wind.
I couldn't just sit there. Julian’s private briefcase was on the floor of the car. Inside it was a flare gun meant for marine distress signaling, along with three magnesium rounds.
I grabbed the heavy orange flare pistol, shoved two spare cartridges into my pocket, and kicked open my door, diving into the rain behind Dante.
"Cora, get back!" Marco yelled from behind an SUV, firing a burst toward the mansion’s second floor.
I ignored him, my boots pounding against the slick wet gravel as I sprinted after the shadow of the mafia boss. My lungs burned, my back screamed in agony where the whip lacerations pulled against the stitches, but the fury that had sustained me for two years in the dark propelled my legs forward.
I reached the cliff edge just as Dante caught up to Genevieve on the narrow stone landing halfway down the lighthouse path.
"Drop the bag, Genevieve!" Dante’s voice echoed above the roar of the surf.
Genevieve spun around, slipping on the wet granite. Her blonde hair was plastered to her skull, her makeup running in dark streaks down her face. She looked like a drowned rat, stripped of all her gala elegance.
In her right hand, she clutched a small glass canister filled with a dark, oily liquid.
"Don't come any closer, Dante!" she screamed hysterically, holding the canister over her head. "Do you know what this is? This is your father’s legacy! Alexander Vance’s purest strain! If I smash this on these rocks, the aerosol will drift straight into the house! Everyone dies! You, your men, everyone!"
Dante froze ten paces away, his gun raised, his jaw clenched in pure fury. "You would kill your own brother?"
"Julian failed!" she shrieked, her voice cracking against the wind. "He let that fat pig ruin everything! He deserves to die! And so do you! The Moretti name ends tonight!"
She raised her arm to smash the glass canister against the stone beneath her feet.
"Genevieve!" I roared, stepping out onto the upper landing above them.
Genevieve’s head snapped upward in shock. "You?!"
I raised the marine flare pistol with both hands, aiming directly at the duffel bag resting at Genevieve’s feet—the bag containing the volatile acetone stabilizers she had stolen from the pier.
"Aconite and acetone have an ignition point of two hundred degrees," I shouted into the howling gale. "A magnesium flare burns at three thousand!"
"You wouldn't dare—" Genevieve began.
*BANG.*
I pulled the heavy trigger.
The bright crimson flare screamed through the rainy night, striking the duffel bag dead center.
A blinding burst of white-hot phosphorus fire erupted across the landing, instantly vaporizing the fabric and igniting the chemical canisters inside. The heat blasted outward with concussive force.
Genevieve screamed in terror, dropping the glass vial of toxin onto the soft moss where it rolled harmlessly into a crevice without breaking. The shockwave knocked her off her feet, sending her sliding across the slick stone toward the sheer drop of the cliff.
"Help me!" she wailed, her fingers desperately clawing at the wet rock as her legs dangled over the roaring, churning abyss of the sea fifty feet below. "Dante! Help me!"
Dante didn't move. He stood tall in the pouring rain, watching her struggle with cold, unblinking eyes.
I walked down the stone stairs, the smoking flare gun hanging at my side, the rain washing the blood and soot from my face. I stopped beside Dante, looking down at the woman who, just hours ago, had whipped me like an animal and commanded me to lick poisoned wine off a Persian rug.
Genevieve looked up at me, her face contorted in sheer terror, her manicured nails tearing against the granite. "Cora... please! I'm sorry! I'll give you everything! My money, my jewels! Please pull me up!"
I looked at the woman who had thought my weight, my poverty, and my silence made me subhuman.
"You told me that servants are meant to be broken," I said, my voice cold and calm, cutting through the thunder. "You were wrong, Genevieve. Glass breaks. Steel only bends."
Dante stepped forward and reached down.
Genevieve gasped in relief, extending her hand toward his.
Instead of taking her hand, Dante stepped onto the duffel bag’s burning strap, kicking the last remnants of her stolen fortune into the sea. Then, with absolute, terrifying calm, he grabbed the collar of Genevieve’s coat with one hand and hoisted her up over the ledge like an unwanted rag, slamming her onto the safe, wet stone of the landing.
She lay there, shivering, gasping, weeping in the rain.
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"You don't get to die in the sea," Dante whispered down at her, his voice devoid of all humanity. "You will stand trial before the five families. You will confess to Alexander Vance's murder. And then you will spend the rest of your natural life in a cell deep beneath the earth, scrubbing your own filth from the floor."
***
