Chapter 11 - The shadow in the snow
The blizzard wailed against the reinforced glass of the mountain lodge, but inside, the air was suffocatingly warm. Richard sat in a leather armchair beside Noah’s bed, his heavy overcoat discarded, watching the boy's chest rise and fall beneath three layers of down blankets. Noah’s small, frostbitten feet were bandaged in soothing antibacterial gauze, his skin still bearing the ghostly paleness of near-death. Every few minutes, a tiny whimper escaped the boy’s lips, and Richard’s weathered hand instinctively reached out, resting gently on the child’s forehead until the trembling ceased.
At exactly four in the morning, the heavy iron knocker on the front courtyard door sounded once, loud and deliberate.
Sal appeared in the bedroom doorway like a specter, his automatic pistol held low against his thigh. "He's here, Don Richard. Alone, like you asked."
Richard rose slowly, his joints stiff, but his eyes burning with renewed fury. He leaned down and pulled the duvet up to Noah’s chin, whispering, "You are safe now, little lion. Grandfather will handle the monsters."
He descended the grand timber staircase into the great room, where the enormous stone fireplace crackled. Standing in the center of the Persian rug was a man tall, lean, and draped in a drenched wool trench coat. His hair was cropped gray, and his face was carved with a network of thin, surgical scars. Viktor Vance—a man erased from every public record in the United States, Richard’s personal cleaner and the most feared contract enforcer on the Eastern seaboard.
"Richard," Viktor said, his voice grating like two millstones rubbing together. He didn't bow, but his posture was rigid with unyielding respect. "You haven't summoned me to the snow since ninety-eight."
"Things were simpler in ninety-eight," Richard replied, stepping to the bar and pouring two tumblers of aged bourbon. He handed one to Viktor. "Mark and Claudia tried to freeze my bloodline to death tonight. They wrapped my six-year-old grandson in butcher paper, tied him with twine, and left him in a cardboard box on the back porch while they drank my wine."
Viktor took the glass, his pale blue eyes narrowing until they were slivers of ice. "Where are they?"
"Shipped to the Palermo compound on a cargo freighter. Stripped of every cent, every suit, every piece of jewelry. They will dig trenches in the mud until their hands rot," Richard spat. "But Mark was always a coward, Viktor. He’s greedy, vain, and weak. He doesn't have the stomach to orchestrate a murder on this property without someone whispering in his ear and guaranteeing him protection."
Viktor took a slow sip, letting the whiskey warm his throat. "You think someone backed him."
"I know someone backed him," Richard said, walking over to a wooden table where Sal had laid out the contents of Mark’s confiscated briefcase. "Mark’s offshore accounts in the Caymans had three deposits this past month totaling forty million dollars. He was going to buy out the transport routes in Jersey the second I had a heart attack or an accident."
Before Viktor could answer, the soft scuffle of bare feet on the hardwood floor above froze both men. Richard spun around immediately, his hand flying to the concealed holster at his hip—until he saw the tiny figure standing at the balcony railing.
May you like
Noah was clutching a corner of the wool blanket around his frail shoulders, his dark eyes wide and terrified as he peered down into the cavernous room.
"Grandpa?" Noah’s voice cracked, small and paper-thin. "The cold man came back?"
