Chapter 5 - THE GOLD RING
The metallic scent of blood mixed with the lingering smoke in the penthouse.
I stared at the gold ring on the severed hand.
Sister Mary. The woman who had run St. Catherine’s for thirty years. The woman who had hidden my brother’s child to protect her from the mob.
Victor Falcone hadn't just sent mercenaries to kill me. He had sent a message. He had slaughtered an innocent nun because she refused to tell him where Lily was.
“Boss,” Dante whispered, looking sick. “What do we do?”
“Burn it all down,” I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “I want every Falcone club, casino, and warehouse hit tonight. No warnings. No survivors. We break the truce.”
Dante nodded firmly, pulling his phone to issue the orders that would drown New York in blood.
I turned back to the panic room.
Clara was holding Lily, packing a small bag of emergency supplies. The little girl was exhausted, her head resting on Clara’s shoulder, her eyes drooping closed.
“We’re leaving,” I told Clara. “My men will escort you to the underground garage. We’re taking the armored convoy to the estate in the Catskills.”
Clara didn't argue. She carefully lifted Lily from the wheelchair and carried her. Marco collapsed the purple wheelchair and grabbed the supply bags.
Twenty minutes later, we were speeding north on the FDR Drive in a convoy of four bulletproof black SUVs.
I sat in the backseat of the lead vehicle with Clara and Lily. The little girl had finally fallen asleep, her head resting in my lap. I placed my massive hand gently over her small back, feeling the fragile rise and fall of her breathing.
She was so small. So innocent. She had no idea she was the center of a mafia war.
Clara sat silently beside me, staring out the tinted window at the passing city lights.
“You’re terrified,” I said quietly.
Clara didn't look at me. “I’m a physical therapist, Mr. Moretti. Yesterday, my biggest worry was filling out Medicare forms. Tonight, I was almost shot by men with machine guns.”
“I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”
She finally turned her hazel eyes to me. There was fear there, yes, but also a stubborn, fierce protectiveness.
“You didn't drag me into this,” Clara said softly. “Sister Mary did. She told me to protect Lily at all costs.”
I looked at her closely. “Why you, Clara? Why did an old nun trust a twenty-seven-year-old physical therapist with the biggest secret in the criminal underworld?”
Clara hesitated. She looked down at her hands, twisting a cheap silver band on her finger.
“Because I wasn't always a physical therapist,” Clara whispered.
I narrowed my eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Before I went to nursing school, I worked at a nightclub in Brooklyn,” Clara said, her voice trembling slightly. “The Velvet Lounge.”
My blood ran cold for the second time that night.
The Velvet Lounge was Victor Falcone’s private club. It was where he conducted his illicit business.
“I was a waitress,” Clara continued, refusing to look away from me now. “I was nineteen. I saw things I wasn't supposed to see. I heard things I wasn't supposed to hear.”
“You knew Elena,” I realized.
Clara nodded slowly. “Elena was Victor’s girlfriend. But she hated him. He beat her. He locked her in his apartment. She was desperate to escape. And then… she met your brother.”
I stared at her, the pieces of the past finally forming a complete, tragic picture.
“Julian came into the club one night for a sit-down with Victor,” Clara said. “He saw Elena crying in the back hallway. I don't know what he said to her, but it was love at first sight. Julian promised to get her out.”
“And you helped them,” I guessed.
“I smuggled letters between them for six months,” Clara confessed. “When Elena found out she was pregnant with Lily, Julian knew Victor would kill them both if he found out. So Julian planned to steal Victor’s offshore ledger, use the money to disappear, and buy their freedom.”
“But Victor found out.”
Clara wiped a tear from her cheek. “Someone betrayed them. The night they were supposed to leave, Victor’s men ambushed Julian’s car on the bridge. Elena managed to escape with the baby and the bracelet, but Victor caught her a week later. He ran her car off the road.”
“And you took the baby to Sister Mary.”
Clara nodded, sobbing silently. “I hid Lily before Victor’s men could search Elena’s apartment. I’ve spent the last six years looking over my shoulder, terrified Victor would figure it out.”
I looked down at the sleeping little girl in my lap.
Clara had risked her life every single day for six years to protect my brother’s child. She had stayed at the orphanage, changed careers, and lived in constant fear, all out of loyalty to a dead woman.
I reached across the seat and gently took Clara’s hand.
“You don't have to look over your shoulder anymore, Clara,” I swore, my voice thick with absolute conviction. “Victor Falcone will never hurt you, or this little girl, ever again.”
Clara squeezed my hand, a small, grateful smile touching her lips.
Suddenly, the SUV swerved violently.
Tires screeched. Metal groaned.
“Ambush!” the driver roared.
A massive garbage truck had just pulled horizontally across the dark, empty highway, blocking our path entirely.
Before our driver could reverse, two more armored SUVs slammed into our rear escort vehicles, trapping us in a box.
Bright halogen floodlights snapped on from the garbage truck, blinding us.
“Down!” Marco yelled from the front seat.
Gunfire erupted, raining down on our bulletproof glass like hail. The heavy caliber rounds spider-webbed the reinforced windows. They wouldn't hold forever.
I threw myself over Clara and Lily, pinning them to the floorboards.
The driver unholstered his weapon, but before he could fire, the driver’s side window completely shattered under concentrated fire. He slumped over the steering wheel, dead.
We were trapped.
The gunfire stopped.
Heavy footsteps crunched on the asphalt outside our ruined vehicle.
The rear door was violently wrenched open.
A man leaned into the SUV.
He wasn't one of Victor Falcone’s men.
He was wearing a perfectly tailored Italian suit, holding a silver-handled cane.
May you like
Silvio.
“Hello again, Dominic,” my uncle smiled, pointing a gun directly at Clara’s head. “Hand over the micro-SD card. Or the physical therapist dies right now.”
