Chapter 10 - The Reckoning of Richard Hastings and the Mercy He Did Not Deserve
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The slaughter that followed lasted less than forty seconds.
Marcone’s two enforcers tried to scramble to their feet, reaching for the sidearms tucked into their belts.
*BOOM.*
*BOOM.*
Damen didn't waste words. Two heavy twelve-gauge tactical rounds tore through the chest armor of both guards, slamming their lifeless bodies against the far brick wall.
Antonio Marcone scrambled backward through the dust like an overturned crab, his hands scraping against broken glass, his face twisted in utter panic. "Damen! Wait! The Five Families... the commission rules! You can't execute a Don without a tribunal!"
Damen racked the slide of the shotgun, ejecting an empty red hull that chimed sharply against the concrete. He walked forward slowly, his boots crunching over pulverized brick, until the wide black bore of the shotgun was pressed directly into Marcone’s open mouth, chipping his front teeth.
"There is no commission today, Antonio," Damen said, his voice terrifyingly calm, devoid of all human warmth. "You touched my wife. That revoked your right to die like a man."
*BLAM.*
The concussive blast echoed off the concrete walls. Damen didn't even look down at what remained of the Don of Queens. He tossed the empty shotgun to Vincent, stepped over the pool of dark blood, and covered the distance to my corner in three long strides.
He dropped to his knees in the dust beside me.
"Clara," he breathed, his voice cracking with an emotion so raw and desperate it made my eyes sting with tears.
His large hands, usually so steady and lethal, were trembling as he inspected the heavy iron cuffs biting into my wrists. He reached into his tactical vest, pulled out a universal handcuff key, and unlocked the ratchets with two sharp clicks.
The moment my arms were free, my strength gave out. I collapsed forward.
Damen caught me instantly, wrapping his massive arms around my body, pulling me tight against his broad chest. His face buried into the curve of my neck, his breath ragged and uneven, his entire body shuddering with relief.
"I have you," he murmured over and over, his lips brushing against my bruised skin, kissing the dust from my temple. "I have you. You're safe. You're home. Nobody touches you ever again."
For the first time in my life, I felt the impenetrable shield of absolute protection. I buried my face into his tactical vest, inhaling the familiar scent of cedarwood, gunsmoke, and Damen, letting my tears finally soak into his dark gear.
From across the room, a pitiful, choked sob cut through the quiet.
Richard Hastings was still lying on the floor, dragging his shattered leg across the dust, leaving a smear of dark blood behind him. He reached a trembling, filthy hand toward us.
"Clara..." Richard wheezed, tears of agony and terror carving clean tracks through the grime on his face. "Clara, please... tell him. He’s going to kill me. I’m your father... your blood. You can't let him murder your own father..."
Damen stiffened. The tenderness that had filled his touch vanished, replaced once more by the lethal ice of the Rossi Don.
He rose to his feet slowly, towering over my broken father like an angel of death. Damen reached down, pulled a black semi-automatic from his tactical holster, and thumbed back the hammer.
"No, Richard," Damen said coldly. "She won't have to watch me kill you. I’m going to let her decide how you leave this earth."
Damen turned and extended the weapon toward me, offering me the checkered grip just as he had in the basement shooting range.
"He sold you to me to save his life," Damen said, his dark eyes watching me with solemn reverence. "He gave Marcone the keys to my house. He stood by while you were beaten for years. Pull the trigger, Clara. End your nightmare with your own hand. No one will ever judge you."
The heavy black pistol rested in my palm.
I looked at the weapon, then down at the man lying at my feet.
Richard Hastings—the tyrant of my childhood, the man whose footsteps used to make my heart stop, the man who had traded me away like a diseased sheep—was now curled in a ball, shivering, wetting himself in terror, begging for a single breath of air.
I raised the gun. The front green dot aligned perfectly with the center of Richard’s forehead.
"Clara, please!" he sobbed, pressing his hands together in prayer. "I’m sorry! I’m sorry for everything! I’ll leave the country! You’ll never see me again!"
My finger tightened on the smooth steel curve of the trigger.
The room was deathly silent. Vincent and the other Rossi enforcers stood frozen by the door, awaiting the execution.
I looked at Richard’s weeping face, then I looked up at Damen.
Damen wasn't looking at my father; he was looking at me, his gaze searching my soul, ready to accept whatever choice I made without a shred of hesitation.
Slowly, deliberately, I lowered the gun.
I flicked the manual safety back into place with a sharp click and handed the weapon back to Damen.
Richard let out a long, wheezing gasp of disbelief. "Clara... thank you... thank you, my sweet girl..."
"Don't thank me, Richard," I said, my voice dead and cold as winter frost. "I’m not sparing you because I forgive you. I’m sparing you because death is an escape. And you don't deserve an escape."
I turned toward Vincent.
"Take him to the federal prosecutor’s office in Manhattan," I commanded, the authority in my voice ringing clear through the concrete basement. "Deliver the flash drive Leo left behind. Hand over every bank record, every Cyprus wire transfer, and every tape of him planning the hit on the FDR Drive. Let the courts strip his name from every building in New York. Let him spend the next forty years rotting in a federal penitentiary with a shattered knee, knowing that his daughter owns every single penny he ever made."
Damen stared at me for a long, breathless moment. A fierce, proud smile broke across his blood-stained face.
"You heard the Boss," Damen commanded without looking back at Richard. "Pack him in a trunk and drop him on the steps of the Southern District Court."
Vincent and two men dragged my screaming, protesting father out into the darkness, his cries fading down the hallway until only the dripping water remained.
Damen reached down, scooped me effortlessly into his arms, lifting me off the filthy floor and pressing me against his chest as if I weighed nothing at all.
"Let's go home, Clara," he whispered against my lips.
May you like
As we emerged from the underground bunker into the blinding daylight of the Queens waterfront, where six black Rossi SUVs stood waiting with engines purring, I knew my life as a victim was buried forever in the dust behind us.
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