Chapter 5 - The Glass in the Fireplace
In the half-second before a gun fires, time does not slow down. It sharpens.
The human eye takes in microscopic details: the tiny scratch on the blued steel of the cylinder, the twitch of the shooter’s index finger against the curved trigger, the smell of burnt gun powder that never completely leaves a weapon that has taken a life.
I didn't try to reason with him. I didn't scream.
Six years in the residential facility dealing with violent teenage wards in full psychotic breaks had taught me one rule above all others: action beats reaction. If you wait for the threat to complete its cycle, you are already dead.
Instead of jumping backward, I threw my entire weight forward, driving the pointed tip of the heavy iron fireplace poker straight through the gap in the door like a harpoon.
The brass-weighted point caught Paulie dead in the center of his throat.
A wet, sickening crunch echoed through the narrow doorway. Paulie let out an involuntary, gurgling gasp, his head snapping backward as his hand jerked on the trigger.
Phut.
The suppressed gunshot sounded like a heavy textbook dropped onto a thick rug. The bullet punched through the solid oak doorframe two inches to the left of my ear, sending a spray of white wood splinters into my hair.
Paulie stumbled back into the hallway, dropping the revolver onto the runner rug as both of his hands flew to his crushed trachea. He collapsed against the opposite wall, his face turning a dark, mottled purple as he clawed at his throat, fighting for oxygen that wouldn't come.
I didn't hesitate.
I reached out, unlatched the heavy security chain, kicked the door wide, and scooped the dropped revolver off the floor with my left hand, keeping the iron poker in my right.
The third-floor corridor was empty, but from the bottom of the grand staircase, two flights down, the distinct sounds of raised voices and smashing glass echoed upward.
“Marco!” I yelled down the stairwell, my voice cutting through the house like a siren. “Intruder on three! South corridor!”
Before my echo could die, heavy footsteps began pounding up the wooden stairs—fast, heavy, and purposeful.
I backed into Gabriel’s bedroom, leveling the heavy snub-nosed revolver at the doorway with both hands, my finger resting lightly along the trigger guard just as my father had taught me on our backyard range in Maine fifteen years ago.
A silhouette filled the doorway.
“Don’t shoot!”
Gabriel cleared the threshold, his dark suit jacket torn at the left lapel, his knuckles bloody and raw. Behind him, Marco appeared, holding a standard-issue Glock at the low-ready, his eyes scanning the corridor behind his boss.
Gabriel’s eyes swept the room in a fraction of a second. They landed on the bullet hole in the doorframe, on Paulie convulsing on the floor of the hallway, and finally on me—standing barefoot in my torn housekeeping uniform, holding an assassin’s suppressed weapon with the stance of a seasoned shooter.
“Where is Sofia?” Gabriel demanded, his voice cracking with an emotion that bypassed anger entirely, plunging straight into fatherly terror.
“In the bathroom,” I said, lowering the gun and setting it carefully on the mahogany side table. “Locked inside. Unharmed.”
Gabriel didn't say another word. He crossed the room in three massive strides, pounding his fist against the bathroom door. “Sofia! It’s Daddy! Open the door!”
A lock clicked. The door swung open, and Sofia launched herself out of the bathroom like a small projectile, burying her face into her father’s chest.
Gabriel caught her, collapsing onto his knees on the navy carpet, wrapping both of his massive arms around her small body so tightly that his knuckles turned white against her back. He buried his face into her hair, his shoulders heaving once, twice, in silent, agonizing relief.
“I have you,” Gabriel whispered into her dark curls, his voice shaking with a vulnerability that none of his business associates would ever have believed existed. “I have you, piccola. Nobody is ever getting past me again.”
Marco stepped into the room, nudging Paulie’s motionless body with the toe of his boot before looking at me.
“Catering temp,” Marco muttered, disgust dripping from every syllable. “Celeste’s father slipped him onto the staff roster three days ago. Said they needed extra hands for a twenty-six-seat dinner.”
“He had this,” I said, pointing toward the laptop on the coffee table where the green progress bar had finished decrypting the archive. “He wasn't here to kidnap Sofia, Marco. He was here to wipe this drive.”
Gabriel slowly lifted his head from his daughter’s shoulder. His eyes, usually a calm, calculating hazel, had turned completely black with rage.
He stood up, carrying Sofia in the crook of his left arm as if she weighed nothing. He walked over to the coffee table, his gaze dropping to the open files on the monitor.
His eyes locked onto the document titled: Letter_To_Gabriel_ReadIfIDie.pdf.
“Where did you get the key?” Gabriel asked, his voice dropping into that terrifying, subterranean quiet.
“Sofia remembered the song,” I replied, stepping back to give him space. “The fisherman’s cradle song from Palermo.”
A muscle in Gabriel’s jaw twitched violently. He looked down at his daughter, whose head was resting against his collarbone, her small hand clutching the torn fabric of his lapel.
“Elena,” he breathed.
He reached out with a trembling hand and tapped the trackpad, opening the document.
The letter was short. Dated November 12—forty-eight hours before Elena Romano died at the bottom of the service stairs.
Gabriel,
If you are reading this, it means I was right, and my brother was wrong. The Marino family has signed an agreement with the federal prosecutor’s office in Boston. Celeste is not your future partner; she is their insurance policy. They intend to use her marriage to you to seize control of the waterfront docks before turning over your shipping manifests to the FBI.
Celeste came to me yesterday at the boutique. She told me that if I did not take Sofia and leave the country quietly, she would make sure you spent the rest of your life in a supermax facility in Colorado.
I am not leaving you, Gabriel. But I cannot let them hurt our daughter. I have hidden the original transfer documents inside the vault at St. Leonard’s. If anything happens to me, look at the buttons on Celeste’s coat. She was wearing them when she threatened our family.
Forgive me for not telling you sooner. I thought I could fix this myself.
Always your Elena.
Gabriel stared at the glowing screen for a long, silent minute. The only sound in the vast room was the crackle of the embers in the fireplace and the steady, rhythmic breathing of his sleeping daughter against his chest.
When he finally looked up, the grief that had weighed down his face for two years had vanished entirely. It had been replaced by something far older, far more dangerous.
A blood debt.
“Marco,” Gabriel said softly.
“Yes, boss?”
Gabriel handed Sofia gently to me. I took her into my arms, her small head settling naturally against my shoulder, her breathing slow and exhausted.
“Take Rachel and Sofia to the subterranean vault beneath the carriage house,” Gabriel ordered. “Double the perimeter guard. Call my brothers in Providence. Tell them to mobilize every man who carries our name.”
Marco nodded once, his face grim. “And Celeste?”
May you like
Gabriel reached down and picked up the suppressed revolver from the side table, checking the cylinder with a single, fluid flick of his wrist.
“She’s still in my library,” Gabriel whispered, his eyes meeting mine for a brief, electric second. “She wanted to marry into this family. It’s time she learned how the Romanos settle their accounts.”
