Chapter 3 - The Doctor's Arrival
The east entrance of Moretti Manor was hidden behind a thick screen of untamed arborvitae and a wrought-iron trellis that had long since rusted shut. It was the entrance the family used when the front gates were blocked by reporters or federal surveillance teams—a quiet, unmonitored line that led directly into the conservatory.
Dr. Marcus Hale stepped through the brush, his black leather medical bag slung over his shoulder, his trench coat damp from the early morning mist. At sixty-two, the former military surgeon walked with a slight limp from a mortar fragment in Mogadishu, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the shadows with the professional paranoia of a man who had spent thirty years stitching up bullet wounds for men who couldn't go to the hospital.
He didn't see the armored car. He saw only Adrian, standing in the darkness of the glass greenhouse, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his hands covered in dry, yellow clay.
"Adrian," Marcus said, his voice a low gravelly whisper. "Your driver met me at the gate. He said you were dead. The rumor on the street is that the Outfit just had a leadership change."
"The Outfit is about to have a funeral, Marcus," Adrian said, stepping out of the shadows. He reached back, guiding Sofia out from behind a row of dead ferns. The little girl had a clean kitchen towel wrapped around her dirty feet, her face smudged with soot from the coal chute. "Take the girl to your clinic. Keep her in the back room under a false name. If anyone asks, she's your niece from Indiana."
Marcus looked down at Sofia, his medical instincts instantly taking over. He knelt, his heavy fingers gently lifting her chin, inspecting the swelling around her ear where Victor's men had grabbed her. "She’s dehydrated. Her pulse is rapid. Who did this to her?"
"Victor," Adrian said. "He’s got her mother. And he’s got my brother."
Marcus froze, his hand stopping mid-air. He looked up at Adrian, his brow furrowed into deep, weathered lines. "Luca? Luca’s been in the ground since twelve years ago, Adrian. I signed the death certificate myself based on the dental records Victor brought from the county morgue."
"Victor brought you a dead man's teeth from a john-doe fire, Marcus," Adrian said, tossing the black steel box onto a iron potting table between them. He opened the lid, pulling out the photograph. "Look at the date on the back of the print. Six weeks ago. That’s a digital print from a commercial kiosk in Cicero. Look at the skyline behind them. That’s the old grain terminal by the canal."
Marcus took the photograph, his eyes narrowing as he adjusted his reading glasses. His breath caught in his throat, a low, whistling sound that smelled of tobacco and peppermint. "My god... it’s him. The scar on the brow... that’s my stitch work from ninety-four. He’s alive, Adrian. But look at his hands."
Adrian leaned in, his eyes locking onto the details he had missed in the darkness of the chamber. In the photograph, Luca’s hands were folded in front of his waist, but his fingers were thick, twisted, and scarred—the classic marks of a man who had spent years working heavy machinery or pulling wire in a high-security facility.
"He’s not a partner, Adrian," Marcus whispered, looking up. "He’s a prisoner. Look at the shadow behind his legs. That’s a chain running into the concrete."
"Victor didn't kill him because Luca had the signature cards for the union funds in Zurich," Adrian said, the pieces of the twelve-year-old puzzle finally falling into place with a sickening precision. "When Luca disappeared, the accounts went dark. We assumed the money was lost. But Victor didn't want the money then—he wanted the key. He’s been keeping him alive, breaking him piece by piece, until Luca gave up the codes."
"And now?" Marcus asked.
"Now Victor has the codes," Adrian said, checking the action on his handgun once more. "The New York meeting was a trap to get me out of the city so he could clear the accounts and take the house. Elena heard them talking in the office. She died to protect the record."
May you like
"You don't know she's dead, Adrian," Marcus said, stepping back toward the east gate, his hand holding Sofia’s small, cold hand.
"In our world, Marcus, a maid who hears too much doesn't get a pension," Adrian said. "She gets a hole. But I’m going to make him dig her out."
