Chapter 3 - The Voice on the Other Line
The conservatory spun around me.
Caleb.
My baby.
My whole life.
Richard’s slate eyes flicked toward me for half a second.
He didn't panic.
The mafia boss who had ruled New York’s waterfront for three decades didn't
break.
"Marcus," Richard said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Who paid you?"
"Salvatore Moretti gave me three million reasons to turn," Marcus sneered.
"Your empire is crumbling, boss. Teresa signs the port transfer by midnight, or
she dies in salt water. And you sign your assets over to Celeste right now."
Celeste pulled a slim leather folder from beneath the flower display.
Pre-drafted power of attorney documents.
"Sign, Richard. Then we let the little boy live. We’ll even let Naomi raise him
in another state."
She tapped the fountain edge with her acrylic nail.
"Refuse, and Marcus’s brother cuts the boy’s throat on camera."
My hands were shaking violently inside my apron.
The heavy steel of Richard’s gun pressed against my thigh.
I looked at the live feed on Marcus's phone.
The masked man in Queens was leaning down.
Touching Caleb’s blanket.
My breath turned to dry ice.
A mother has no fear when her child is cornered.
Only madness.
Richard slowly lowered one knee to the stone floor.
"I need my pen. Inside my jacket."
"Use mine," Celeste purred, stepping forward with a gold Montblanc.
Marcus shifted his weight.
His gun barrel dipped two inches away from Richard’s chest, focusing on
Richard’s hands.
That was his mistake.
Richard didn't reach for the pen.
He lunged forward like a striking viper, his right hand grabbing Marcus’s gun
wrist, twisting it with bone-shattering force.
A wet CRACK echoed through the glass dome.
Marcus screamed.
The gun fired into the dirt—phut.
Celeste shrieked, backing into the orchid shelf.
"Shoot him!"
Marcus reached for his belt knife with his left hand.
I didn't think.
I pulled Richard’s revolver from my apron.
I lifted it with both hands, ignoring the blistering agony in my left palm.
I pointed it at Marcus’s head.
"LET HIM GO!" I screamed.
Marcus froze, his bloody wrist dangling, staring down the wide black cylinder of
the .357 Magnum.
Richard slammed his elbow into Marcus’s temple.
The security guard collapsed onto the marble floor like a slaughtered bull.
Richard snatched Marcus’s phone before it hit the ground.
He stared at the Queens live feed.
"Naomi. Don't look."
"Give it to me!" I sobbed, rushing forward. "My son—"
Richard held the phone to his ear and pressed the speaker button.
"Queens team. Execute."
On the screen, the door of my Queens apartment burst inward.
Two men in full tactical armor stormed Caleb’s tiny bedroom.
Flashbangs flashed silent light on the screen.
The masked man holding the shears was tackled into the dresser, handcuffed, and
dragged out by his hair in less than four seconds.
A calm voice spoke over the phone speaker:
"Castellano Vanguard. The boy is untouched, Don Richard. He is sleeping through
it. Area secured."
My knees buckled.
I fell onto the fountain ledge, sobbing so hard my chest tore.
Caleb was safe.
Caleb was breathing.
Richard looked down at me.
His slate eyes held a warmth I had never seen before.
"I placed an armed perimeter around your apartment at five-thirty, Naomi. The
moment you showed me that burn."
Celeste was creeping toward the glass exit doors.
Her green silk dress was torn against the thorns.
Her diamonds caught the moonlight.
Richard didn't even look up as he raised Marcus's dropped pistol.
He fired once.
The glass panel two inches from Celeste’s face shattered into a million raining
crystals.
Celeste froze, shards of glass tangled in her blonde hair.
She slowly turned around, her face white as chalk.
"Sit down, Celeste," Richard said softly.
"Before I stop being a gentleman."
Suddenly, Marcus’s radio crackled on his vest.
A panicked voice spoke through static:
May you like
"Marcus! The old woman had a stroke in the van! She’s crashing! What do we do
with the body?!"
