Chapter 6 - The Iron Wolf's Debt
“Nothing,” Victor said quickly, stepping forward with his hands raised. “We had two men outside her room before the shooting at Rosie’s even started. The moment Marco’s van pulled onto 8th Street, my team extracted your mother through the ambulance bay. She is safe, Clara. She is in a private pulmonary care suite at Massachusetts General under an assumed name.”
My knees gave out. I collapsed onto a leather armchair near the fire, burying my face in my hands. The relief was so violent, so overwhelming, that it felt like another form of pain. My mother was safe. She wasn't lying in a dark room suffocating while men tore through her belongings.
Alessandro slowly stood up from the oak table. He walked over to where I sat, his gait stiff, his left hand pressed against his bandaged ribs. He stopped beside the chair, looking down at me with those unreadable slate-gray eyes.
“Why?” I asked, looking up through my tears. “Why did you protect her before you even came to the diner tonight?”
Alessandro reached into his pocket and pulled out the brass safety-deposit key that had hung around my neck. He laid it gently on the small side table next to my coffee mug.
“Because your father died trying to protect a city that didn't give a damn about him,” Alessandro said quietly. “And because when I threw that cup at your feet yesterday, you didn't look at my clothes, my money, or the men at my back. You looked at a broken piece of porcelain and told me what it was worth.”
He leaned down, his face level with mine. The heat from his skin was intense; the faint smell of antiseptic and cedarwood hung between us.
“In my world, Clara, everyone is for sale,” he murmured, his voice rough as gravel. “Judges, mayors, police captains, priests. They all have a number. My father spent his life buying men’s souls for fifty thousand dollars a piece. But you... you handed me back ninety-seven dollars because three dollars was what the cup cost.”
He reached out, his calloused thumb gently catching a tear that ran down my cheek, brushing it away before his hand fell back to his side.
“You cannot buy a woman who knows what three dollars is worth,” Alessandro said. “And right now, you are the only person in this city I can trust.”
Before I could answer, the satellite phone on the table buzzed violently against the wood.
Victor picked it up, listened for five seconds, and turned to Alessandro with a face the color of chalk.
“It’s the docks,” Victor whispered. “Marco just breached the central logistics vault at Pier 12. He didn't just take the weapons manifest, boss. He has the safe deposit box from First Mutual. He has the real ledgers.”
Alessandro’s eyes narrowed into slits of ice. The pain from his surgical stitches seemed to evaporate, replaced by a cold, calculating fury that made the hair on my arms stand up.
“Get the cars,” Alessandro said softly.
“Boss, you have three bullet wounds and twelve stitches!” Victor protested. “You can’t go into that terminal tonight!”
Alessandro walked over to the gun rack beside the mantle, pulled a heavy tactical shotgun from the wall, and racked the slide with a single, brutal motion.
“Marco took my father’s ledger,” Alessandro said, his voice vibrating with lethal certainty. “And he took Thomas Vance’s legacy. If he wants to play with the fire my father built, I will give him the ashes.”
He turned back to look at me.
“Stay here, Clara. The house is secure.”
I looked at the brass key on the side table. I looked at the man who had just saved my mother’s life while carrying three pieces of lead in his side.
“No,” I said, rising from the chair.
May you like
Alessandro frowned. “This isn't a diner, Clara. This is an execution.”
“I know what it is,” I said, picking up the brass key and sliding it into the pocket of my wool sweater. “My father died because of what is inside that terminal. If you’re going to burn that building to the ground, Mr. Romano, I want to watch the smoke.”
