Chapter 9 - Into the Furnace
The fire started three minutes later.
It wasn't an accident. Julian had found four fifty-gallon drums of industrial solvent behind the testing lab and kicked the brass bung-plugs out with his heel, letting the clear, sweet-smelling fluid run across the concrete toward the bodies and the overturned kerosene lamps.
By the time they reached the end of the pier, the roof of the chemical shed was already a sheet of pale orange flame that hissed violently against the falling rain.
The *San Matteo* was waiting.
Marco had brought the boat alongside the pilings, her bow lines secured to an iron ring, the diesel engines rumbling in that deep, reassuring rhythm that promised thirty knots as soon as they cleared the shallows.
Adrian helped Elena over the rail.
She was weak, her knees buckling as her feet hit the mahogany deck, but Teresa was already there, her strong old arms catching the younger woman by the waist and pulling her toward the warm companionway.
Julian paused at the rail.
He looked back at the burning dock.
The heat was already intense enough to reach them across the fifty yards of water, carrying with it the smell of burning creosote, scorched paint, and the final, absolute destruction of thirty years of Moretti history.
"It’s over," Julian said, more to himself than to his brother.
Adrian stood beside him, the FN-FAL slung over his shoulder, his face illuminated by the dancing orange light.
"It’s not over," Adrian said. "We still have to explain to Don Carmine why three of his cousins aren't coming to Sunday dinner."
Julian looked at him, his face tired, his eyes hollow with the kind of exhaustion that sleep couldn't fix.
"What are you going to tell him?"
"I’m going to tell him," Adrian said, "that Salvatore was careless with his cigarettes. Carmine is an old man, Julian. He prefers a convenient lie to an expensive war."
He pushed his brother toward the hatch. "Go down. Your daughter thinks you were attacked by a blackberry bush. You should probably wash the blood off your face before she decides you're a monster."
Julian hesitated, then reached out and placed his hand on Adrian’s shoulder.
It was the first time in six years they had touched without a weapon or an argument between them. The grip was firm, rough with scars and salt, but it was the hand of a brother who had finally come back across the ice.
"Thank you, Adie," Julian whispered.
Adrian didn't answer. He simply nodded once, his eyes fixed on the fire until Julian had disappeared down the steps into the warm yellow light of the cabin.
"Marco," Adrian called.
"Boss?"
"Cast off. Take us out through the bay. We’re going home."
The boat backed away from the flaming pier, her bow swinging toward the gray expanse of the Delaware.
Adrian remained on the aft deck, his back against the cabin bulkhead, watching the black smoke rise into the morning sky until it was swallowed by the clouds.
The rain was stopping.
Between the gray rolls of the nor'easter, a single shaft of pale, clean sunlight broke through the mist, touching the salt marshes of the New Jersey shore with a sudden, blinding brilliance that turned the dead reeds into gold.
From the cabin below, Adrian heard a sound.
A small, high-pitched whistle.
Three times.
*Tweet. Tweet. Tweet.*
Followed by the sound of a little girl laughing, and then her mother’s voice—tired, cracked, but alive—telling her that owls were supposed to sleep when the sun came up.
Adrian looked down at his right hand.
The black onyx ring was scratched. A tiny fleck of gold had been gouged from the setting where a spent cartridge casing had struck it during the fight in the lab.
He rubbed the stone against the wool of his trousers until it shone again, dark and deep as the river at midnight.
May you like
Then, for the first time in six years, Adrian DeLuca turned his back on the water, walked down the steps into the warmth of his family, and shut the door behind him.
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