Chapter 2 - The House on the Hill
My primary residence was not a penthouse or a sprawling suburban mansion. It was a private fortress built into the cliffside of Red Rocks, protected by fifteen-foot stone walls, heat-sensing cameras, and twenty armed security guards operating around the clock.
By eight o'clock that evening, Maria and Emily were sitting in the grand drawing room, looking terrified by the dark mahogany furniture, the bulletproof floor-to-ceiling glass, and the armed men patrolling the terrace outside.
I sat in my titanium wheelchair across from them. Nathan, my personal physician—a man who received a seven-figure salary precisely because he kept his mouth shut—was standing beside me, reviewing my latest MRI scans on a digital tablet.
"It defies logic, Julian," Nathan muttered, rubbing his temples. "The scar tissue on your spinal column is dense. The nerve impulses shouldn't be able to bypass the trauma site."
"And yet my toe moved," I said flatly.
"A reflex arc—"
"I willed it to move, Nathan," I interrupted, setting my glass of scotch down on the side table. "I felt the impulse leave my brain, travel down my spine, and reach my foot. It was faint. It felt like trying to hear a whisper through a brick wall, but it was there."
I turned to Emily. She was sitting on the plush leather sofa, her small sneakers dangling several inches above the Persian rug. She was holding a cup of hot chocolate that my housekeeper had brought her.
"Emily," I said, keeping my voice as gentle as a lifelong killer could manage. "Come here."
Maria started to object, but Emily set her cup down and walked over without hesitation. She stopped inches from my knees.
"Why did you say I had nowhere I wanted to go?" I asked her.
Emily looked up into my face. She didn't look at my expensive watch, my tailored suit, or the armed guards standing at the door.
"Because my grandmama used to say that when a person's spirit gives up, their legs stop carrying them," Emily said simply. "You have lots of men who obey you, but you don't look at anyone with love. You only look at them like you're waiting for them to steal from you."
In the corner of the room, Nathan caught his breath. Nobody spoke to Julian Moretti like that. Ever.
I let out a low, dry laugh. It felt strange in my chest—rusty, like an old hinge that hadn't been used in years.
"Your grandmama was a wise woman," I murmured. "Now... show me what you felt earlier."
Emily crouched down. She didn't ask for permission or use sterile gloves like the fancy doctors in Boston. She placed both of her hands on my right leg—one on my inner ankle, the other just below my knee joint.
Her fingers were warm.
She closed her eyes. For two full minutes, she didn't move. She just breathed slowly, deeply, as if she were listening to a faint song playing deep beneath my skin.
"There," she whispered, her thumb pressing firmly into a spot right behind my shinbone.
A sharp, electric shock shot up my leg.
I gasped, my hands gripping the armrests of my wheelchair so hard the leather groaned.
"Julian!" Nathan stepped forward, alarmed.
"Don't move!" I barked.
The pain wasn't agony. It was life. It was a searing, white-hot line of sensation tracing its way up through my dormant nerves, firing straight into my brain.
Emily opened her eyes. She looked up at me, her forehead light with sweat.
"The line isn't cut," she whispered, her small voice full of certainty. "It's just sleeping under a heavy rock. If we move the rock a little bit every day... you can stand up."
I stared at her, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the drawing room burst open.
Garrett Boone walked in, followed by four of my senior syndicate lieutenants. Their faces were grim, their coats smelling of rain and gunpowder.
"Julian," Garrett said, his voice flat and urgent. "We have a problem. The Alvarez cartel just hit our warehouse on 4th Street. They know you canceled the sit-down. Word is spreading that you're losing your mind over a janitor's child."
I looked at Garrett. Then I looked at Emily, whose hand was still resting on my leg.
May you like
The shadow world I had spent thirty years building was knocking on my door, trying to drag me back into the blood and darkness.
"Garrett," I said softly, my eyes locking onto his. "Assemble the captains. Tell them to double the guards on the perimeter. If anyone from the Alvarez organization steps within three miles of this house... kill them."
