Chapter 5 - The Smoke
The explosion sent a shockwave through the floorboards, knocking Emma to her knees.
The lights in the bedroom flickered violently before dying completely, plunging the room into the grey gloom of the overcast afternoon. Down the hall, fire alarms began to shriek, a piercing, mechanical wail.
"Alessandro," Emma gasped, clutching the velvet pouch and the birth certificate to her chest.
She scrambled to her feet and looked at Thomas. The old man was gripping the armrests of his wheelchair, his eyes wide with terror, staring at the floor where the explosion had originated.
"I have to check on him," Emma said, panic tightening her throat.
She grabbed the gun from the floor, her hands shaking so badly she almost dropped it. She unlocked the heavy bedroom door and pulled it open just a crack.
The grand hallway was rapidly filling with thick, acrid black smoke pouring up from the main staircase. Through the haze, Emma could hear the chaotic shouts of Julian’s security men scrambling toward the basement.
"He's in the boiler room!" a voice yelled from below. "Lock down the exits!"
Emma closed the door and turned back to Thomas.
"They're going after him," she whispered.
She looked down at the birth certificate in her hand. The impossible reality of it crashed over her.
Her mother, the gentle woman who grew roses in a tiny suburban backyard, had never spoken about Emma’s father. She always said he died before Emma was born. But Thomas Carbone, the ruthless mafia don, had her birth certificate hidden beneath his floorboards.
He had pointed at his own chest.
"Are you..." Emma choked on the words, her eyes filling with tears. "Are you my father?"
Thomas stared at her. His lower lip trembled.
Slowly, agonizingly, his finger found the little brass bell on his lap.
Ding.
One ring. Yes.
Emma covered her mouth to muffle a sob. The forgotten old man she had been reading to, the man she had bought a bell for so he wouldn't be lonely, was the father she had never known.
But there was no time to demand answers.
Smoke was beginning to seep under the bedroom door.
"We have to get you out of here," Emma said, wiping her face. "The house is on fire."
She ran to the wheelchair, unlocking the brakes. But as she pushed the heavy chair toward the adjoining bathroom, a horrifying realization stopped her.
The main hallways were filled with Julian's armed men and suffocating smoke.
The service elevator was too small for the wheelchair.
Thomas was completely paralyzed below the waist. Emma was seven months pregnant. She couldn't carry him.
"I can't lift you," Emma panicked, her breath coming in short, terrified gasps. "Mr. Thomas... Dad... I can't lift you!"
Thomas looked at the encroaching smoke. He looked at Emma’s swollen belly.
Then, he did something that broke her heart.
He pushed the brass bell off his lap. It clattered to the floor, rolling under the bed.
He looked at Emma, then pointed his trembling finger firmly toward the service elevator.
Go.
"No," Emma cried, gripping the handles of his chair. "I am not leaving you here to burn! I just found you!"
Thomas shook his head stubbornly. He pointed to her belly, his eyes fierce and unyielding, demanding she protect the child she carried.
"I won't do it," Emma sobbed.
Suddenly, the bedroom door handle rattled violently.
"Open the door!" Mrs. Voss shrieked from the hallway, pounding on the wood. "The fire is spreading! Julian said to leave the old man, but he locked the door!"
Emma froze. Julian had ordered his men to leave Thomas to burn. It was the perfect cover for a murder.
Emma looked wildly around the room. Her eyes landed on the heavy, king-sized bedsheets.
She didn't run to the elevator. She ran to the bed and began ripping the thick, Egyptian cotton sheets from the mattress.
"You are not dying today," Emma told Thomas, her voice suddenly terrifyingly calm.
She tied the massive sheets together into a thick, crude rope, anchoring one end around the heavy, iron radiator bolted to the wall beneath the window.
She ran to the window, unlocked the heavy latch, and pushed. It didn't open. She remembered Alessandro saying it was bulletproof and sealed shut.
Emma picked up the heavy oak stool she used to sit on when she read to Thomas. She swung it with every ounce of strength her pregnant body possessed, smashing it against the glass.
The glass didn't shatter, but it cracked.
She hit it again. And again. On the fourth strike, the heavy pane gave way, spider-webbing outward before collapsing onto the patio below with a massive crash.
Cold, fresh air rushed into the smoke-filled room.
Emma grabbed the sheet-rope and tied it securely around Thomas's chest, right under his arms.
"I'm going to lower you to the patio," Emma said, her face streaked with soot and tears. "It's only one story down. You have to trust me."
Thomas looked at her, his eyes filled with absolute awe.
He didn't just trust her. He looked at her exactly the way a proud father looks at his daughter.
Emma dragged the wheelchair to the window. With a massive heave that sent a sharp pain through her lower back, she hoisted Thomas onto the window sill.
Just as she began to lower him over the edge, the bedroom door burst open.
Mrs. Voss stood in the doorway, coughing through the black smoke, holding a heavy iron fireplace poker.
She saw Emma at the window.
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"You stupid girl!" Mrs. Voss screamed, raising the iron bar and charging through the smoke.
Emma let go of the rope with one hand, grabbed the loaded gun from her waistband, and turned.
