Chapter 7 - The Hostage at Mount Sinai
The cold air rushed out of my lungs as if someone had driven a baseball bat into my solar plexus.
My vision blurred at the edges, the stainless-steel counters spinning around me in a sickening swirl.
“Leo,” I gasped, clutching the edge of the stone prep table to keep from collapsing.
“Vincent didn't know about your brother an hour ago,” Gabriel said, stepping toward me and grabbing my wrists with firm grip.
“Listen to me, Tessa.”
“Vincent’s contact in the Manhattan district attorney’s office ran your background check the moment you spilled that coffee.”
“They found the hospital guarantor records and the clinical wire transfer from my personal holding corporation.”
“He knows Leo is your pressure point.”
“If he touches Leo, I will tear Vincent’s throat out with my bare teeth!” I screamed, struggling against Gabriel’s grip.
The calm, obedient waitress was gone; only the feral survival instincts of Hell’s Kitchen remained.
Gabriel did not let go of my wrists; he pulled me closer until his face was inches from mine.
“Screaming won't stop a bullet, Tessa,” Gabriel commanded, his voice cold and commanding.
“Vincent’s car is twenty-five minutes away from Manhattan.”
“Traffic on the Triborough Bridge is crawling due to rain.”
“We have eighteen minutes before his men reach the hospital entrance.”
Gabriel reached into his jacket, pulled out a small black radio transceiver, and keyed the emergency channel.
“Marco,” Gabriel spoke into the device.
“Code Red at Mount Sinai.”
“Execute extraction protocol three immediately.”
“Take the private transport van and move the patient to the safe clinic in Bay Ridge.”
“If anyone approaches the elevator banks without the clearance token, neutralize them on sight.”
The radio squawked twice with static, followed by Marco’s gruff, monotone confirmation.
“Understood, Boss.”
“Extraction team is already stationed in the pediatric corridor.”
Gabriel released my wrists and pocketed the radio.
“Marco has four former tactical operators sitting outside your brother’s room right now,” Gabriel explained, meeting my frantic eyes.
“They were placed there the moment I authorized the clinical wire this morning.”
“I don't leave my flanks unprotected, Tessa.”
“Especially not when I bring someone into my father’s house.”
I slumped against the table, drawing ragged, shaking breaths as the panic slowly receded into cold fury.
“You knew Vincent would target him,” I whispered, looking up at him with accusing eyes.
“I anticipated that Vincent would look for leverage,” Gabriel admitted without hesitation.
“In my world, if you show interest in a stray dog, someone will shoot the dog just to see if you flinch.”
“My brother is not a stray dog,” I spat through clenched teeth.
“Then help me finish this before Sunday,” Gabriel said, leaning over the table toward me.
“Vincent is planning to present a forged medical power of attorney to the council.”
“He claims my father signed over operational control of the docks and the trucking unions two weeks ago.”
“If the heads of the other three families accept that document, Vincent becomes Don, and Gabriel Rossi becomes a corpse.”
“And what happens to Leo and me?” I asked bitterly.
“You already know the answer to that,” Gabriel said softly.
“Vincent doesn't leave witnesses, and he certainly doesn't leave people who humiliate him in front of his crew.”
“The only thing that can break Vincent’s claim is the original trust ledger from 1974.”
“The ledger contains the actual legal titles to the holding corporations that own the docks.”
“My father’s signature on the trust is registered with private trusts in Zurich that require Bernardo’s co-signatory seal.”
“Without that seal, Vincent’s forged papers are worthless paper scraps.”
I stood upright, smoothing down my trembling fingers against the coarse denim of my jeans.
The image of Bernardo Cosenza sitting at his oilcloth-covered table flashed through my mind with blinding clarity.
I remembered the dented metal tin he had kept hidden behind the baseboard beneath his cast-iron sink.
I remembered the heavy iron key he wore on a dirty piece of twine around his neck every day of his life.
“The tin is not in a landfill,” I whispered, looking up into Gabriel’s eyes.
Gabriel’s brow furrowed, his entire frame freezing in place.
“What did you say?” he asked, barely daring to breathe.
“When Bernardo died, the marshals cleared the apartment, but they didn't touch the basement storage cages,” I said.
“Bernardo traded his winter coat to the building super thirty years ago to secure the boiler room locker behind the coal chute.”
“He told me once that the only place to hide something valuable in New York is behind fifty tons of dirt.”
Gabriel’s hand dropped to his side, his fingers flexing with sudden adrenaline.
“Can you open that locker?” Gabriel asked.
“I don't need a key,” I answered, a grim smile touching my lips.
“I helped Bernardo grease the hinges every October.”
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“Get your car, Gabriel.”
“We are going back to Forty-Eighth Street.”
