Chapter 2
The change did not occur through a sudden realization.
It moved slowly, like water entering the fractures of a stone foundation.
Nora returned 1 week later with a clean white bandage around her left hand.
She remained chaotic.
She forgot to order toner.
She mispronounced names.
Lorenzo no longer cared.
He watched her through the glass wall of his office.
He noticed the way she chewed the end of a pen when frustrated.
He discovered that she preferred the stale coffee inside the staff room to the espresso he offered.
He recognized the exact moment, ordinarily around 3:00 p.m., when her shoulders lowered beneath exhaustion from the 2 lives she carried.
One month after the attack, the office stood empty beneath the dark city.
New York’s skyline glowed through lines of gold and neon.
Lorenzo left his office.
Nora remained at her desk, typing awkwardly with 1 hand and 2 fingers of the other.
“Go home.”
She did not look up.
“I need to complete these ledgers.”
Her eyes remained on the screen.
“The quarterly review is tomorrow.”
Nora’s mouth tightened.
“Someone whose name I will not mention, although his initials are Carmine, covered the printed copies with meatball-sandwich sauce.”
Lorenzo crossed toward the desk and closed the computer.
“Hey.”
“The records can wait.”
He lifted a brown paper bag resting near her elbow.
It was warm.
“What is this?”
“Dinner.”
Nora attempted to take it back.
Lorenzo opened the bag.
A crushed sandwich wrapped in foil sat inside.
He dropped it into the wastebasket.
“Are you insane?”
Nora stood.
“That cost $5.”
“You are not eating garbage.”
Lorenzo removed his telephone.
“We are ordering proper food.”
Thirty minutes later, they sat over the leather sofa inside his office.
Takeout containers from one of Manhattan’s best Italian restaurants covered the table.
Truffle risotto.
Veal saltimbocca.
Fresh burrata.
Nora ate with the focused efficiency of someone who had not consumed a proper meal for several days.
Lorenzo did not eat.
He watched while drinking Barolo.
“You are staring.”
She pointed a forkful of risotto toward him.
“I am observing.”
“It is disturbing.”
Nora gestured toward the veal.
“Eat.”
She swallowed and wiped her mouth.
“Why did you really do it?”
“Do what?”
“Purchase the pharmacy.”
Nora looked directly at him.
“Keep me inside the office.”
Her dark eyes became sharp.
The cynical defense between them had lowered.
“You are a ruthless Mafia leader.”
“I have heard the stories.”
Nora rested her injured hand over her lap.
“You do not possess a concealed heart of gold.”
“You do not rescue stray animals.”
Her voice became softer.
“Why me?”
Lorenzo moved the wine inside his glass.
Dark red reflected the office light.
He could have lied.
He could have constructed a practical explanation.
Looking at Nora without shoes, seated inside his office and holding her bandaged hand against her skirt, he did not want to lie.
“My father was a butcher.”
The words felt unfamiliar.
“Not metaphorically.”
Lorenzo looked toward the wine.
“He was a literal butcher inside Palermo.”
He spoke without expression.
“He worked 18 hours each day with blood and animal fat covering his hands so we could eat.”
Nora stopped.
She placed the fork down and gave him her complete attention.
“He was good.”
Lorenzo’s jaw tightened.
“He was also weak.”
He continued.
“The local captain liked the shop.”
“He demanded payment.”
Lorenzo’s eyes became distant.
“My father could not pay.”
His fingers closed more tightly around the glass.
“They broke both his hands with a meat tenderizer.”
The office became silent.
“I was 12.”
His voice remained empty.
“I watched.”
Lorenzo drank.
The wine tasted like ash.
“I learned that the world does not reward goodness.”
“It does not reward effort.”
His gaze returned to Nora.
“It rewards leverage.”
“It rewards violence.”
Lorenzo placed the glass down.
“I constructed this organization so no one would ever possess the power to break my hands.”
He held her eyes.
“I became a monster to prevent other monsters from approaching.”
Nora did not flinch.
There was no pity or fear inside her expression.
“And me?”
Lorenzo released an exhausted breath.
“You entered my office without 1 shoe.”
He looked at her.
“You were entirely unimpressed by the monster.”
His mouth moved slightly without forming a smile.
“You look at me and do not see blood over my hands.”
“You see a man.”
“You are a man.”
“I have not been only a man for many years.”
Lorenzo moved nearer across the sofa.
He took Nora’s uninjured hand between both of his.
Her fingers appeared small against his scars.
“I kept you because my world is dark.”
His thumb rested against the pulse inside her wrist.
“It is cold.”
“It is merciless.”
Lorenzo felt her heartbeat accelerating.
“You are the only person inside my life who is not part of a transaction.”
He held her gaze.
“You are chaotic.”
“Insubordinate.”
Lorenzo’s voice became quieter.
“You are also the only reason I remember how to breathe.”
Nora stopped.
“Lorenzo.”
His name was a warning and a plea.
He leaned forward.
His mouth touched the corner of hers.
The kiss was not forceful.
It was hesitant and almost reverent, a question spoken with no voice.
Nora answered by moving closer.
Her hand traveled along his chest and caught the lapel of his jacket.
She tasted of wine and truffle.
Lorenzo enclosed her waist with 1 arm and drew her against him.
For 1 suspended moment, the organization ceased to exist.
Violence became something imagined.
There was only the leather sofa, rain beginning against the windows, and Nora’s warmth inside his arms.
Then Lorenzo’s telephone rang.
It was not the ordinary tone.
A sharp alarm cut through the room.
The burner telephone.
It existed only for critical emergencies.
Lorenzo withdrew.
The cold reality of his world returned immediately.
He removed the device.
“Conti.”
“Boss.”
Carmine sounded breathless.
“We have a serious problem.”
“Report.”
“Victor Tarasov.”
Carmine continued.
“Dmitri’s uncle.”
“He entered from Moscow yesterday.”
A pause followed.
“He did not attack the docks.”
“He did not attack a warehouse.”
Cold moved through Lorenzo.
A terrible understanding formed.
He looked toward Nora.
“Where did he attack?”
“He did not attack a location.”
Carmine swallowed.
“He took someone.”
“We received a ransom recording.”
Lorenzo stood.
“Who?”
“It is her.”
Carmine’s voice weakened.
“Nora’s mother.”
The recording lasted 30 seconds.
It played across the large monitor inside Lorenzo’s office.
Nora stood without moving.
Both hands held the edge of the oak desk until the knuckles became white.
An older woman sat inside a wheelchair within a damp concrete basement.
She appeared terrified.
Multiple sclerosis caused her hands to shake uncontrollably.
A large masked man stood behind the chair.
Victor Tarasov’s accented voice came through the recording.
“Lorenzo Conti, you took my nephew.”
“You took my blood.”
The camera moved slightly.
“We no longer want your docks.”
“We want a life for a life.”
Victor continued.
“You are attached to the girl working behind your desk.”
“We see how you watch her.”
“Deliver the girl to the Navy Yard by midnight.”
His voice became colder.
“If you do not, the mother dies.”
A pause followed.
“Afterward, we will take the girl regardless.”
The screen became black.
The office was silent.
Carmine remained near the entrance, looking toward the floor.
Lorenzo stood before the windows with his back toward the room.
His shoulders were rigid.
Nora did not cry.
The exhausted and cynical woman who fought insurance companies had disappeared.
Something numb remained.
“So.”
Her voice came from a distant place.
“That is the end.”
Lorenzo turned.
His face carried complete violence.
The man who kissed her 20 minutes earlier no longer appeared to exist.
The monster had awakened.
“Carmine.”
Lorenzo’s voice became a low threat.
“Assemble every crew.”
“Empty the armories.”
His eyes became cold.
“Secure the Navy Yard.”
“No one enters.”
“No one leaves.”
“Boss.”
Carmine spoke carefully.
“It is a trap.”
He looked toward Nora and then Lorenzo.
“Victor has approximately 40 men inside.”
“The location is a fortress.”
Carmine’s jaw tightened.
“Attacking directly is suicide.”
“Do it.”
“No.”
The single word struck the room.
Both men looked toward Nora.
She released the desk and crossed into the office’s center.
Her attention remained over Lorenzo.
“You are not entering that location.”
Her voice hardened.
“You are not sending your men to die.”
“Nora, remain outside this.”
“Outside?”
Her control broke.
“It is my mother.”
Nora’s voice rose.
“They do not want you.”
“They want me.”
“They intend to torture you to punish me.”
Lorenzo crossed toward her.
His body towered above hers.
“They will kill your mother.”
His voice became brutal.
“Then they will place you inside a shipping container and send pieces of you toward Siberia.”
His expression did not move.
“You are not going.”
“If I do not go, she dies tonight.”
Nora looked directly at him.
“I will not let her die because of your conflict with the Russians.”
“She is already dead.”
Lorenzo shouted the sentence.
Nora moved backward as though he had struck her.
His chest rose violently.
He hated himself for saying it.
He needed her to understand.
“Victor Tarasov leaves no witnesses.”
His voice became rougher.
“He does not honor exchanges.”
Lorenzo stepped nearer.
“Even if I deliver you, he will shoot her the moment he has control of you.”
His eyes remained cold.
“That is the reality of this world.”
Nora stared.
Tears finally crossed her face.
“You brought it to my door.”
Her voice fractured.
“You purchased the pharmacy.”
“You made them notice me.”
“I know.”
“You destroyed my life.”
“I know.”
Lorenzo’s voice broke.
He reached toward her.
Nora moved away sharply.
“Do not touch me.”
Lorenzo lowered both hands.
He faced Carmine.
“Secure her inside the private suite upstairs.”
His voice returned to command.
“Place 2 guards outside.”
“She does not leave this building.”
“You cannot do this.”
Nora struck both hands against Lorenzo’s chest.
“Let me go.”
She fought with everything she possessed.
“Lorenzo, please.”
Her voice broke completely.
“It is my mother.”
Lorenzo did not move.
He allowed her to strike him.
He accepted every part of the grief and rage.
When Nora finally collapsed against his body, sobbing into the ruined silk shirt, Lorenzo closed his arms around her.
His chin rested over her head.
“I am sorry.”
He closed his eyes.
“I am so sorry, Nora.”
He gave Carmine a slight signal.
Carmine approached and carefully pulled Nora away.
She fought him.
She shouted Lorenzo’s name and called him a monster and murderer until the elevator doors closed.
Her voice disappeared.
Lorenzo remained alone inside the office.
He crossed toward the desk, opened the lower drawer, and removed a black tactical vest.
He secured it over his shirt.
From a concealed wall compartment, he removed a custom AR-15 and inspected its action.
Four additional magazines went into the vest.
Lorenzo would not send other men into a suicide operation.
Carmine returned.
He looked toward the weaponry and released a long breath.
“Boss, if you enter alone, you will not return.”
“I brought this to her door.”
Lorenzo placed a round inside the chamber.
The metallic sound crossed the office.
“I will correct it.”
He looked toward Carmine.
“If I do not communicate by 1:00 a.m., give Nora access to every offshore account.”
His voice became final.
“Make certain she disappears.”
“Do you understand?”
Carmine nodded slowly.
“Yes, boss.”
“I understand.”
Lorenzo walked toward the door without looking backward.
For the 1st time, Lorenzo Conti possessed something worth dying for.
Rain had ended, leaving an oily reflection over the cracked pavement surrounding the Brooklyn Navy Yard.
Salt, rusted iron, and ozone filled the air.
Lorenzo extinguished the lights of a matte-black sport utility vehicle 2 blocks away.
He left the engine running beside a chain-link fence, removed the suppressed AR-15 from the passenger side, and entered the damp night.
He moved among the shipping containers with the quiet precision of a man returning to an old body.
For 10 years, Lorenzo directed violence from behind a desk.
Other men bled for his accounts.
The physical memory of killing had not disappeared.
It had only waited.
Two guards smoked beneath a halogen light near Warehouse 4.
They spoke quietly in Russian.
Lorenzo raised the rifle.
He did not hold his breath.
Holding breath tightened the body.
He released air slowly and allowed his heartbeat to settle.
Two suppressed rounds fell into the distance between beats.
Both guards reached the wet pavement before their cigarettes did.
Lorenzo continued moving.
He bypassed the primary doors and approached a secondary entrance he already knew.
The docks belonged to him even while Victor occupied them.
Lorenzo used a cloned master card Carmine created 5 years earlier.
The steel entrance opened.
The warehouse resembled a cavern made from darkness.
Rusted gantries crossed above like the ribs of a dead animal.
Floodlights and folding tables created a temporary command station over the central floor.
Approximately 12 armed men drank coffee from thermal containers.
Lorenzo did not possess superior numbers.
He possessed surprise and absolute rage.
He removed 2 flash-bang grenades, pulled the pins, counted to 2, and rolled them across the floor.
The devices exploded with blinding force.
Dust fell from the ceiling.
The Russians screamed and covered their eyes and ears.
Lorenzo entered the light.
The killing became mechanical.
He fired in brief, controlled bursts.
Men fell before they understood the threat.
The suppressed weapon sounded unnatural among the dying.
Gunpowder rapidly replaced the smell of saltwater.
By the time the survivors understood there was only 1 attacker, 6 men were dead.
Return fire struck the warehouse.
Unsuppressed AK-47 rounds tore into concrete columns and steel containers.
Lorenzo remained behind cover, replaced the empty magazine, and killed a man attempting to approach from the side.
A shot struck him.
White pain exploded inside his left side.
The force turned Lorenzo into the metal container.
His breath disappeared.
He did not look downward.
Looking would make the injury real.
Lorenzo tightened his jaw, tasted blood, and moved around the container’s opposite edge.
A blind burst struck the shooter’s throat.
The warehouse became quiet.
Water dripped from a damaged pipe.
Men struggled for breath while bleeding over concrete.
Lorenzo pressed 1 hand against his side.
It returned wet.
The 7.62 mm round had passed beside the tactical plate and entered the soft tissue beneath his ribs.
The pain was severe.
His legs continued functioning.
Lorenzo loaded another magazine and moved toward the reinforced offices at the warehouse’s rear.
He entered the basement stairwell by kicking through a wooden door.
Fluorescent light waited below.
“Conti.”
Victor’s voice came from the bottom.
“You come downstairs, and the old woman dies.”
A pause followed.
“Drop the weapon.”
Lorenzo continued descending with the rifle raised.
The basement was a concrete box.
Joan Davies sat at its center inside a wheelchair.
She was small, frail, and shaking violently.
A blanket covered her shoulders.
Victor stood behind her with a revolver pressed against the back of her gray head.
“I told you to lower the weapon.”
Victor’s eyes widened.
His fortress had been destroyed by 1 man.
Lorenzo reached the final step.
Blood had filled his left boot.
His heart worked too hard, forcing life through the opening inside his side.
“Victor.”
Lorenzo’s voice became a rough whisper.
“You have 2 seconds to remove that weapon from her head.”
His eyes remained fixed over Victor.
“Then I place a bullet through your left eye.”
“If you fire, I fire.”
Victor’s hand trembled.
“I will destroy her head.”
“You will attempt it.”
Lorenzo did not negotiate.
“One.”
The revolver moved against Joan’s skull.
“Two.”
Lorenzo fired.
He did not aim toward Victor’s eye.
The round destroyed the wrist holding the revolver.
The weapon crossed the floor.
Victor screamed and staggered backward.
Before he could reach another weapon, Lorenzo fired twice into his chest.
Victor fell and did not move.
Lorenzo lowered the rifle.
Adrenaline disappeared.
His knees failed.
He caught the wall and left a long mark of blood across the gray paint.
He forced himself upright, placed the rifle over his shoulder, and moved toward the wheelchair.
Joan stared with complete terror.
Her breathing had become dangerously rapid.
Lorenzo lowered himself onto 1 knee before her.
The movement was agonizing.
He refused to stand above her.
Lorenzo extended his right hand with the palm visible.
“Mrs. Davies.”
His voice became as gentle as he could make it.
“My name is Lorenzo.”
He paused.
“I work with your daughter.”
Joan blinked.
The tremors decreased slightly.
“Nora?”
“Yes.”
Lorenzo forced a small smile.
“Nora sent me to collect you.”
His breathing weakened.
“I apologize for the noise.”
He looked toward the exit.
“We need to leave.”
“The police will arrive soon.”
Lorenzo did not wait for her to understand the dead men around them.
He stood and took the wheelchair handles.
Every step toward the freight elevator required negotiation with gravity.
Darkness began closing around the edges of his vision.
Lorenzo pushed Joan into the elevator and selected the ground level.
He rested against the wall.
“You are bleeding.”
Joan pointed toward his waist.
“It is only a scratch.”
Lorenzo’s vision moved.
“Carmine is waiting outside.”
His voice weakened.
“He drives more carefully than I do.”
They reached the ground level.
Lorenzo pushed her into the damp night.
Sirens sounded beyond the yard.
Several sport utility vehicles entered with tires moving across the wet ground.
Carmine emerged carrying a rifle.
He examined the yard and then saw Lorenzo.
“Boss.”
Carmine ran toward him.
His eyes moved from Joan to the blood covering the left side of Lorenzo’s vest.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Put her inside the vehicle.”
Lorenzo’s speech had become uneven.
“Take her to the private clinic.”
He held the wheelchair.
“Tell Bennett to perform a complete examination.”
“I have her.”
Carmine looked toward Lorenzo.
“What about you?”
“I am fine.”
Lorenzo stepped backward.
His shoes lost contact with the wet pavement.
He did not feel the fall.
May you like
Cold entered his bones.
Then there was nothing except silence.
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