Chapter 6 - The Trap Closes
“Down!” Dominic roared, tackling Maddie sideways off the workbench just as a second bullet embedded itself with a dull thud into the heavy oak table where she had been standing a second before.
The glass splinters crunched beneath his overcoat as he dragged her behind a massive iron printing press in the corner of the back room.
“They found us,” Maddie gasped, clutching his arm, her eyes wide with sheer terror. “Who is it? The DeLucas?”
“Serafina’s father,” Dominic growled, his face hardening instantly from a desperate lover into a cold, lethal syndicate boss. His hand slipped inside his coat, pulling out the matte-black Sig Sauer pistol he always carried. “He must have followed our private jet telemetry or tracked Calo’s comms. They didn't want a merger; they wanted a slaughter.”
“Dominic, there’s a back alley exit behind the supply closet!” Maddie pointed toward a narrow wooden door half-hidden behind stacks of archival cardboard boxes.
“No,” Dominic said flatly. “The alley is a kill box. That’s why they broke the front window—to drive us toward the back where their spotter is waiting.”
Another muffled shot cracked through the shop, shattering a row of framed antique mirrors in the front gallery. Glass cascaded like wind chimes.
Dominic’s jaw clenched. He pulled his phone from his pocket with his left hand, his thumb pressing the emergency override button that connected directly to Calo’s tactical frequency.
“Calo,” Dominic spoke in a sharp, quiet hiss. “Art shop on Charles Street. We’ve got incoming—at least three professional cleaners wearing DeLuca colors. Get the extraction team here now.”
“Boss, we’re two blocks away—we got gridlocked by a snowplow accident on Beacon Street,” Calo’s voice crackled over the secure earpiece, accompanied by the roar of an engine. “Hold tight for ninety seconds!”
“I don't have ninety seconds,” Dominic muttered, glancing down at Maddie. She was pale, pressing herself against the cold iron base of the printing press, her hand flat against her stomach.
“Listen to me,” Dominic said, grabbing her shoulders and forcing her to look directly into his eyes. “When I tell you to run, you go through that back supply door. Don't look back. There’s a heated underground parking garage fifty yards down the alley connected to the bank building. Use this.”
He shoved a small, heavy key fob into her hand. “My bulletproof SUV is parked in space 42. Engine is running. Calo left the doors unlocked.”
“I’m not leaving you here!” Maddie hissed, tears of anger and fear mixing on her cheeks. “If you stay and fight them, they’ll kill you!”
“If I don't stay and buy you thirty seconds, they’ll kill us both,” Dominic corrected her, his voice brooking no argument. He pressed a long, fierce kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering against her skin as if committing it to memory. “Run, Maddie. Save our child.”
Before she could protest, Dominic vaulted over the iron printing press, rolled across the open floor, and fired two rapid shots through the doorway toward the front gallery.
A sharp curse rang out from the front shop, followed by the sound of heavy boots scrambling behind a display case.
“Now, Maddie! Go!” Dominic shouted over the gunfire.
Maddie scrambled backward into the supply closet, shoving the wooden door open. The freezing air of the back alley hit her face like a physical wall. She hesitated for one agonizing heartbeat, listening to the exchange of gunfire inside the shop—the terrifying pop-pop-pop of silenced pistols echoing off the brick walls—before she turned and sprinted into the blinding Boston snow.
Her boots slipped on the icy cobblestones, but adrenaline propelled her forward. She rounded the corner of the brick alleyway, her breath burning her lungs, searching frantically for the underground garage entrance Dominic had described.
There it was—a heavy steel door marked PRIVATE PARKING.
She jammed the key fob into the electronic reader. The green light blinked, and the heavy door hissed open, sliding into the wall.
Maddie tumbled inside into the warm, dimly lit subterranean parking structure. Rows of luxury vehicles stretched out into the shadows. She counted the pillars frantically: 12... 24... 36... 42.
There it was—Dominic’s matte-black Navigator, idling quietly, exhaust curling from the tailpipe.
She yanked the rear door open, threw herself into the back seat, and locked the doors from the inside, gasping for air as her entire body shook with delayed shock.
A heavy thump echoed from the top of the concrete stairs leading down from the alley.
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Maddie froze, her heart stopping dead in her chest.
Footsteps—heavy, calculated, and entirely too close—began descending the concrete steps toward the garage.
