Chapter 1 - The Trap Sprung
The air in the study turned to solid ice.
"Rosie, don't turn around," Orson repeated, his voice barely a rasp beneath the hum of the desk lamp. "The man standing behind you is the one who arranged that shooting nine years ago."
Every survival instinct I possessed screamed at me to drop to the floor. But shock had calcified my joints. My grandfather’s magnifying loupe remained trembling between my thumb and forefinger, reflecting the faint, deadly glint of the silver fragment embedded beneath Orson Dramore’s scarred wrist.
Behind me, the whisper of leather against fabric was followed by the sharp, metallic *click* of a slide racking back.
Kellen Price didn't bother offering an excuse. He didn't stutter. His voice was smooth, stripped entirely of the polished deference he had worn at the iron gates.
"You should have looked the other way, little jeweler," Kellen said softly. "You were brought here to fix a family ring, collect your three thousand dollars, and save your pathetic shop. Instead, you had to look through the glass."
"Kellen," Orson said. The Mafia boss did not flinch. His gray eyes remained fixed on the space just over my right shoulder. "You stood beside my hospital bed for six weeks. You hunted down four rival capos in Little Italy to avenge me."
"Because they were convenient scapegoats, Orson," Kellen answered, stepping closer. The barrel of his gun was now inches from the back of my skull. I could feel the radiant chill of the weapon. "You were forty-six and growing soft. You were talking about legitimizing the shipping lanes. You were talking about peace with the Moretti family. Chicago doesn't bow to peace. It bows to blood."
"And you thought crippling my right hand would make me your puppet?"
"It did make you my puppet," Kellen sneered. "For nine years, I ran the enforcement branch while you hid behind heavy desks and silk gloves. But you're smart. You always were. If this girl pulls that casing’s signature, your loyalists will know the shot didn't come from a Moretti rifle. It came from my custom armory."
"Rosie," Orson said calmly.
"Y-yes?" My teeth chattered.
"When I say duck, do not hesitate. Do not look for your tools. Just hit the Persian rug."
"Touching," Kellen mocked. "Neither of you is walking out of this—"
"Duck."
The command cracked like thunder.
I threw myself forward onto the mahogany desk, scattering tiny jeweler’s screwdrivers, tweezers, and the fractured gold ring across the polished wood.
In that same split second, Orson Dramore moved with a speed that defied human anatomy. His left arm—the only arm anyone believed was functional—swept across the desktop. He seized the heavy brass reading lamp by its stem and hurled it with terrifying precision.
The lamp struck Kellen squarely across the bridge of his nose. Bone crunched. Kellen roared in pain, his weapon discharging wildly into the ceiling plaster. A shower of white dust and shattered crystal from the chandelier rained down upon us.
Before Kellen could re-aim, Orson lunged over the desk.
He didn't use a gun. He used his sheer mass, tackling his former lieutenant into the mahogany bookshelves. Leather-bound volumes toppled in cascades. Kellen swung his pistol toward Orson’s chest, but Orson’s left hand clamped onto Kellen’s wrist like an iron vise, slamming it against the solid oak wall until the weapon clattered to the floor.
"Nine years," Orson growled, his face twisted in cold, unadulterated fury. "I treated you like a brother."
"You... treated me... like a hound," Kellen gasped, his face slick with blood from his shattered nose.
Suddenly, Kellen used his free knee to strike Orson’s abdomen. The blow created an inch of space. Kellen didn't reach for the gun on the floor; instead, his hand plunged into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a small, black radio transmitter.
He pressed the side button.
"All teams! Code Red in the master study! Kill everyone inside!"
His voice blared through the mansion’s intercom system. Down the long corridors, heavy combat boots began pounding against marble.
Orson didn't waste a breath. With a brutal left hook, he knocked Kellen unconscious. The traitor slumped onto the scattered books.
Orson turned to me. His black suit was dusted with plaster. His right hand remained tucked stiffly inside his coat, but his gray eyes were ablaze with a terrifying, protective fire.
"Can you run, Miss Fenomore?"
"I... my grandfather's tools—"
He grabbed my wrist with his left hand. His grip was unexpectedly gentle, yet unyielding. "Leave the tools. If you stay here, they will put a bullet through your eyes. Move!"
He dragged me through a concealed panel behind the shattered bookshelf just as the heavy double doors of the study were blown off their hinges by automatic gunfire. Bullets shredded the mahogany desk where I had been sitting seconds before.
May you like
The secret door clicked shut, plunging us into total, suffocating darkness.
***