Chapter 3 - Blood on the Hardwood
The fluorescent lights of the infirmary hummed with an irritating, high-pitched buzz that grated against my nerves. Sal Marcone’s blade hovered a millimeter above Grace Harper’s bleeding cheek, his eyes locked onto mine with sadistic amusement.
"Drop the piece, Roman," Sal ordered, gesturing with his gun toward the two thugs flanking the doorway. They immediately raised their weapons, their sights dead-centered on my chest. "Don't even think about playing hero. We’ve been watching this place for three days. We know your guards are rotating off-site."
Grace let out a muffled, desperate cry through the duct tape, shaking her head violently from side to side. Her eyes were wide with terror—not just for herself, but for her daughters sleeping or hiding somewhere upstairs.
I didn't drop my gun. Instead, my thumb flicked the safety off with a sharp, metallic click that echoed clearly through the small room.
"You're a long way from South Boston, Sal," I said smoothly, taking a slow step forward. "And the Moretti family is going to have a very hard time explaining why their favorite lieutenant’s body washed up in Dorchester Harbor tomorrow morning."
Sal’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. He knew my reputation wasn't built on hollow threats. I didn't negotiate with men who threatened innocent civilians under my roof.
"You think you're untouchable, Duca?" Sal sneered, pressing the scalpel harder into Grace’s skin. "Your old man stole something that belonged to the Morettis back in nineteen-eighty-two. A ledger containing every dirty cop, judge, and politician on the East Coast. We know it’s bricked up behind the third-floor study wall. Tell us how to open the hidden door, and maybe—just maybe—we let the housekeeper and her brats walk out of here alive."
So that was it. The secret room wasn't just a hiding place for bodies or cash; it held the ultimate leverage over the entire city of Boston.
"You're welcome to try and find it," I replied, my finger tightening slightly on the trigger of my Glock. "But you'll have to get through me first."
"Kill him," Sal snarled, dropping the scalpel and reaching for his own weapon.
The two thugs moved in unison, but they made one fatal mistake: they underestimated a man fighting on his own turf.
Before their index fingers could squeeze the triggers, I dropped flat to the linoleum floor. Twin flashes illuminated the dim infirmary as bullets shattered the glass medicine cabinets behind me, raining shards of glass across the room.
I fired twice from the floor.
The first round caught the thug on the left directly in the center of his chest, spinning him backward into the stainless-steel instrument tray with a violent crash. The second round took the second gunman in the shoulder, knocking his weapon wide before it clattered across the floor.
Sal panicked. He lunged forward, grabbing Grace by her hair and jerking her upward to use her as a human shield, pressing the barrel of his pistol against her temple.
"Drop it, Duca! Drop it or I scatter her brains across this floor right now!" Sal screamed, spittle flying from his lips, his face twisted in desperate rage.
I slowly stood up, keeping my weapon leveled at his chest, but holding my fire. I couldn't risk a stray round hitting Grace.
"You're dead, Sal," I whispered, stepping closer. "You crossed the line tonight. Bringing innocents into family business means there is no sanctuary for you anywhere on earth."
"I don't need a sanctuary, I need that ledger—"
Suddenly, a loud, heavy crash echoed from the hallway directly outside the open infirmary door.
Clatter. Thud.
It sounded like the heavy industrial vacuum cleaner tumbling down the wooden service stairs from the third floor.
Sal’s head snapped toward the doorway in distraction. That single split-second lapse in concentration was all I needed.
I fired once.
The bullet struck Sal directly in his right wrist, shattering bone and sending his pistol flying across the room with a sharp clatter. He shrieked in agony, releasing Grace as he clutched his mangled hand, stumbling backward into the heavy examination table.
Before he could recover, I closed the distance in two strides, bringing the heavy steel butt of my Glock down hard against the side of his skull.
Sal's eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed heavily onto the linoleum, unconscious and bleeding freely from a deep laceration.
The room fell dead silent, save for the hum of the overhead lights and Grace’s ragged, tearful breathing.
I holstered my weapon instantly, dropped to my knees, and ripped the duct tape away from Grace’s mouth, using my pocketknife to slice through the zip ties binding her wrists.
"Roman... oh God, Roman, my girls..." Grace sobbed, clutching her bruised jaw as I helped her to her feet. "They came in through the basement window an hour ago. They locked me in here..."
"They're safe," I interrupted firmly, steadying her by the shoulders. "Mia and the baby are upstairs in my study. They're unharmed, Grace."
She let out a massive, shuddering breath of pure relief, leaning against the wall for support. But as I looked up toward the ceiling, a cold realization gripped my chest.
Mia hadn't just been cleaning my office when I found her.
She had been trying to finish the work before something happened. And she had heard a crying woman inside a wall that was supposed to be completely sealed from the outside world.
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If Sal Marcone’s men had been in my house for three hours searching for the secret room... they hadn't just been looking at blueprints.
They had already found a way inside.
