Chapter 7 - The Night Dominic Moretti BledWe reached Hawthorne Farmhouse just after midnight.
Snow covered the narrow road leading to the property. The farmhouse stood behind a rusted iron gate, its windows dark, its roof sagging beneath years of winter weather.
Dominic's men surrounded the building.
I sat in the back of the vehicle, gripping Michael's photograph.
Eleven days ago.
He had been alive eleven days ago.
Perhaps he was still alive.
Perhaps he was somewhere inside that house, waiting for someone who had taken four years to find him.
Dominic opened my door.
“Stay here until Bruno gives the signal.”
“No.”
“Claire—”
“If my husband is inside, I'm not sitting in a car while strangers decide whether he deserves to be rescued.”
Dominic's expression hardened.
Then he seemed to understand there was no point arguing.
“You stay behind me. Whatever happens, you do not run ahead.”
I nodded.
We entered through the back door.
The farmhouse smelled of damp wood, old smoke, and disinfectant.
A television flickered in an empty kitchen. Fresh food sat on the counter. Someone had been living there.
Bruno raised his weapon.
“Clear.”
We moved down a narrow corridor.
At the end was a locked metal door.
Dominic examined it, then nodded to the locksmith accompanying us.
Seconds later, the lock clicked.
The room beyond was a small basement.
A mattress lay against one wall. An empty tray sat beside a metal chair. The window had been boarded shut from the outside.
And on the far side of the room, a man sat chained to a radiator.
His head was bowed.
His face was bruised.
His hands were so thin that the bones stood out beneath his skin.
“Michael?”
The name escaped me as a broken whisper.
The man lifted his head.
For a moment, he simply stared.
Then his eyes widened.
“Claire?”
I ran toward him.
He tried to stand, but the chain dragged him back.
“Don't,” he whispered. “Claire, you shouldn't be here.”
I fell to my knees and grabbed his hands.
Four years.
Four years of anger, grief, sleepless nights, and birthdays spent pretending I wasn't waiting for him.
Now my husband was alive.
I struck his chest with both fists.
“You bastard!”
He flinched.
“You left us! Rosie asked for you every night! I had to explain why you never called, why you never sent a birthday card, why every other child had a father and she didn't!”
Tears streamed down my face.
Michael began to cry.
“I know.”
“You don't know anything!”
“I tried to come home.”
“When?”
“Every day.”
I wanted to believe him.
I hated myself for wanting to believe him.
Dominic knelt beside us and examined the chain.
“Michael, can you walk?”
“With help.”
Dominic turned.
“Cut the chain.”
The locksmith moved forward.
A gunshot exploded upstairs.
Everyone froze.
Bruno rushed to the doorway.
“Contact! Two men at the rear entrance!”
Another gunshot shattered a basement window.
Dominic shoved me behind the concrete support wall.
“Stay down!”
The lights went out.
Gunfire echoed through the farmhouse.
I heard shouting, crashing glass, and the heavy thud of someone falling down the stairs.
Then Dominic made a sound I would never forget.
A sharp, strangled gasp.
He staggered backward, pressing his hand against his side.
Blood spread through his black shirt.
“Dominic!”
He dropped to one knee.
Bruno returned fire while another guard dragged Michael toward the stairs.
I crawled to Dominic.
He looked at me through gritted teeth.
“Get out of here.”
“I'm not leaving you!”
“This isn't a negotiation!”
“Neither is this!”
I grabbed a fallen cloth and pressed it against his wound.
His face tightened.
“You should have stayed in the car,” he muttered.
“And you should have stayed out of my life.”
Despite the pain, he almost smiled.
Then Bruno shouted from the staircase.
“Boss! We have to move!”
Dominic tried to stand.
His legs buckled.
I caught his arm.
Together, we dragged him toward the exit as gunfire followed us through the dark farmhouse.
Behind us, Michael stumbled into the snow.
Before I could help him, he suddenly grabbed my wrist.
“Claire!”
“What?”
His eyes were full of horror.
“Carlo didn't send those men to kill Dominic.”
I stared at him.
May you like
Michael pointed toward the road.
“They came for Rosie.”
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