Chapter 1 - The Weight of a Name
The silence on the other end of the encrypted line stretched long enough for the rhythmic pounding of the rain against the glass to sound like a metronome counting down seconds I didn't want to lose.
Grant Mercer had been my lieutenant for six years. He didn't stutter. He didn't hesitate. When Grant paused, it meant the floor beneath us had just shifted.
"Explain yourself, Grant," I said, my voice dropping into that cold, level register that usually made grown men clear their throats.
"Boss, it's not a simple file pull," Grant muttered, the faint sound of wind whistling through his car phone suggesting he was already out in the storm. "I didn't need to dig into municipal databases or run a social security trace. I know about the clinic in Queens because of what happened four years ago before you took over full control of the North River docks."
My grip on the phone tightened until the plastic casing creaked. "Speak."
"Mara Ellis isn't just a domestic worker you picked up from an agency," Grant said, his tone heavy with a warning I had never heard him use before. "Her maiden name is Mara Russo. She's your cousin Leo's widow."
The room seemed to tilt on its axis.
Leo had died in a rigged warehouse explosion in Hoboken five years ago—an accident everyone in the family whispered was a message sent by the Marino syndicate before Vanessa's father and I brokered our uneasy truce. Leo had been a reckless, low-level gambler who blew through family trust funds, but he had a wife everyone assumed had fled back to upstate New York after the funeral.
"Leo's wife died in a car wreck months after the funeral," I stated, though the conviction in my own voice was already hollowing out.
"That's what the family was told to keep the water calm," Grant said grimly. "Leo left her broke, drowning in his mob debts, and pregnant with a daughter who inherited severe pulmonary complications. When Leo died, the family cut her off to protect the books. She changed her last name back to Ellis, dropped off the grid, and worked her way up through cleaning services until she landed an assignment in your own basement two years ago."
I looked down at the medical bill resting on my mahogany desk. Balance due: $43,870.
My cousin's widow. My own blood, scrubbing the concrete where my men erased our business problems, drowning in medical bills while my fiancée debated the architectural integrity of imported French roses.
May you like
"Where is the child right now?" I demanded, standing up so fast my leather chair rolled backward into the wall.
"St. Jude’s Pediatric Hospital in Queens," Grant replied instantly. "And Boss? Her breathing crisis tonight? It isn't just an ordinary flare-up. The hospital called for an emergency transfer an hour ago. She’s code blue."
