Chapter 2 - The Blood on the Infirmary Linoleum
The air inside the hidden vault grew so cold that my breath plumed into white vapor,
swirling around the flickering bulb of the storm lantern like an apparition trying to form a body.
I did not move toward my mother,
not because I did not want to touch her bruised,
skeletal hands,
but because the military training hammered into my bones over two decades told me that an open corridor behind me was a fatal tactical mistake.
Mia had crept to the threshold of the steel doorway,
her small face frozen in a look of absolute,
speechless terror as she stared at the woman chained to the radiator.
The baby on her back stirred again,
letting out a wet cough,
her tiny fingers reaching out blindly from the folds of the blue shawl.
"Mister Duca,"
Mia whispered,
her lower lip trembling so violently that her teeth clicked together in the silence,
"is that...
is that the lady who Mama brings the soup to every Sunday?"
My jaw locked so hard that a sharp pain shot upward into my temple.
For eight years,
Grace Harper had entered this house every single morning at five o'clock,
polishing the silver,
scrubbing the marble floors,
and preparing three meals a day for a man who barely spoke ten sentences to her in a week.
Every Sunday evening,
she had insisted on staying late to deep-clean the private library and my father's old study,
claiming that the antique books required specialized oiling and dusting that could only be done when the mansion was empty.
I had believed her.
I had trusted her quiet,
unassuming demeanor,
never realizing that the woman who ironed my shirts was smuggling hot broth,
clean bandages,
and stolen antibiotics into the very walls of my home.
"Mia,"
I said,
dropping to one knee so that my eyes were level with the child's wide,
tear-stained eyes,
"listen to me very carefully.
Do you see this heavy lock on the inside of the shelf door?"
Mia nodded,
swallowing hard,
a single tear cutting a pale streak through the soot and dust smudged across her cheek.
"I am going to put you and your sister inside this room with this lady,"
I told her,
my voice as steady and unyielding as granite,
"and I am going to pull this bookcase shut until it clicks.
You will sit on that mattress,
you will hold your sister tight against your chest,
and no matter what you hear outside—no matter if you hear men shouting,
glass breaking,
or gunshots echoing down the stairs—you will not make a single sound.
Do you understand me,
little soldier?"
"Will Mama come back?"
she asked,
her voice breaking into a ragged sob that she instantly smothered with both of her dust-caked hands.
"I am going to get your mother,"
I swore,
unbuttoning my heavy wool overcoat and draping it around Mia's frail shoulders,
the black fabric swallowing her whole.
"And whoever touched her will answer to me before the sun touches the harbor."
I did not wait for her to answer.
I lifted Mia,
the infant,
and the frayed shawl in one swift motion,
placing them gently down onto the rough wool blanket beside the silver-haired woman.
My mother reached out with shaking,
calloused fingers,
her touch so light it was like the brush of a dead leaf,
and pulled Mia’s head against her hollow collarbone.
"Go,
Romi,"
Elena whispered,
her eyes burning with the fierce,
unforgiving fire of the old Duca bloodline.
"The back corridor smells of cordite.
They came with silenced weapons,
and they did not come from the front gates."
I pulled the heavy steel door shut until the heavy magnetic pins engaged with a heavy,
muffled thud.
Then I pushed the mahogany bookcase back into its groove,
listening for the distinct mechanical lock to engage with the frame.
To any outsider,
to any federal agent,
to any rival syndicate lieutenant from the North End,
the study was just an empty room smelling of furniture polish and rain.
I stood alone in the dark office,
the rain outside beating a savage rhythm against the glass.
I reached into my pocket,
pulled out a fresh fifteen-round magazine,
and checked the chamber of my Kimber.
Brass gleamed under the shadows.
I racked the slide,
letting the steel snap forward with a crisp,
lethal certainty.
I exited the study,
stepping into the long,
cavernous hallway of the third floor.
The Persian runners muffled my footsteps,
turning my approach into the silent glide of a predatory shadow.
I did not take the grand spiral staircase that curved down toward the marble foyer.
That was where an amateur would go,
and where an ambush would be waiting with automatic rifles aimed at the banister.
Instead,
I slipped through the concealed service pantry behind the linen closets,
taking the narrow,
spiral servant stairs that wound down through the core of the house.
The air in the stairwell grew noticeably warmer,
and with the warmth came the unmistakable,
metallic copper scent of fresh arterial blood.
When I reached the landing of the second floor,
I saw the thin sliver of fluorescent light cutting through the gap beneath the infirmary door.
The infirmary was a relic of my father's paranoia,
installed during the mob wars of the late nineties so that wounded captains could be stitched together by payroll surgeons without filing police reports.
I approached the frame,
pressing my ear against the painted wood.
No voices.
No movement.
Only the slow,
rhythmic dripping of liquid striking linoleum.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I placed my left hand on the brass knob,
found it unlocked,
and kicked the door inward with enough force to splinter the wooden latch.
I came in low,
muzzle tracking from left to right,
sweeping the medicine cabinets,
the stainless-steel examination tables,
and the dark corners behind the privacy screens.
The room was clear of hostiles,
but the violence that had taken place inside was painted across the walls.
Glass vials of morphine and saline lay shattered across the floor,
crunching beneath my boots like brittle bone.
In the center of the room,
lashed to a heavy hydraulic examination chair with black plastic zip-ties,
was Grace Harper.
Her white uniform was soaked in crimson from her collar down to her waist.
Her head hung forward,
her dark hair glued to her forehead by thick,
clotted blood that oozed from a jagged cut across her scalp.
Her hands,
the same hands that had carefully dusted my father's portrait every morning,
were swollen and discolored,
two of her fingers bent back at unnatural,
broken angles.
"Grace,"
I growled,
crossing the room in two strides and dropping beside the chair.
I reached down,
pressing two fingers against the side of her neck,
praying to whatever god still looked down on Beacon Hill that I would find a pulse.
Beneath the clammy,
cold skin,
her carotid artery fluttered,
faint,
irregular,
but fighting.
I pulled a serrated tactical knife from my belt and sliced through the zip-ties binding her wrists and ankles.
Grace gasped,
her body slumping forward into my arms,
her head rolling back against my shoulder with a pitiful,
gasping groan.
"M-Mr...
Mr. Duca,"
she choked out,
coughing up a mouthful of pink,
frothy saliva that splattered against the lapel of my suit.
"Mia...
where is...
where is my baby?"
"They are safe,"
I said,
my voice tight,
my hand steadying her neck as I reached for a clean roll of gauze from an open cabinet.
"Mia is safe,
the baby is safe,
they are with my mother behind the west wall."
Grace’s swollen eyes widened in pure,
unadulterated terror,
her bloody fingers clawing weakly at the front of my shirt.
"No,"
she wheezed,
her voice trembling with an agonizing desperation that made my stomach drop.
"You don't understand,
Roman...
they didn't come here to kill me.
They came here...
May you like
because Marcus knows she's alive.
And he's not coming alone."
