Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Past
For seven hours, the operating lights inside the Moretti medical wing remained bright red.
Outside, the sun began to rise over the Atlantic Ocean, casting a cold, silver light across the Marblehead estate.
Adrian sat on the bench outside the operating room. He hadn't changed his blood-stained shirt. He hadn't slept. He hadn't eaten.
Noah and Lily had finally fallen asleep in the adjacent room, exhausted from terror, held closely by their long-time housekeeper, Rosa.
At 6:30 AM, the surgical doors finally hissed open.
Dr. Mercer stepped out, pulling off his bloody surgical mask. He looked exhausted, his eyes bloodshot, but there was a faint, relieved breath leaving his lips.
Adrian stood up instantly. “Is she alive?”
“She is a remarkably tough young woman, Mr. Moretti,” Mercer said, wiping his brow. “The bullet passed through her back, nicked the upper lobe of her right lung, and shattered her fourth rib before exiting her chest. She lost a massive amount of blood. If you had arrived two minutes later, she would have been dead.”
Adrian felt a knot in his throat loosen slightly. “Will she recover?”
“We repaired the pulmonary artery and stabilized the lung,” Mercer replied. “She is currently in a medically induced coma to allow her chest to heal. The next forty-eight hours are critical. Infection and respiratory failure are our main concerns. But for now... yes. She is alive.”
Adrian took a slow, deep breath, closing his eyes for a brief moment. “Thank you, Mercer. You will find five million dollars transferred to your off-shore account by noon.”
“I don't want your money for this one, Adrian,” the old doctor said quietly, looking at Adrian with genuine pity. “That girl didn't take a bullet for your mafia empire. She took a bullet for two motherless children. Take care of her.”
When Mercer walked away, Adrian pushed open the glass door and stepped into the intensive care room.
The only sound was the rhythmic beep... beep... beep of the heart monitor and the soft hiss of the ventilator.
Evelyn lay in the center of the room, looking impossibly small against the white sheets. An oxygen mask covered her mouth and nose. IV lines were hooked into both of her pale wrists, pumping fluids and blood into her body. Her face was marble-white, stripped of the vibrant, warm color that usually defined her.
Adrian pulled a chair beside her bed and sat down.
He slowly reached out, taking her cold, frail hand in his massive, calloused palm. Her skin felt light as paper.
“Why did you do it?” Adrian whispered softly to the quiet room, his thumb gently stroking the back of her knuckles. “You were just supposed to teach them spelling and colors. You weren't supposed to die for them.”
He remembered the day she had walked into his office eight months ago. She had looked so small, holding her worn leather tote bag, standing before the feared mob boss without a single trace of deceit in her eyes.
“Safety comes first,” he had told her that day.
“And what about making them happy?” she had shot back.
She had been right. He had been so obsessed with keeping his children breathing that he had forgotten to let them live. In eight short months, Evelyn had filled his cold, tomb-like mansion with music, drawings, laughter, and light.
And now, her light was flickering on the edge of the dark.
The door behind him opened quietly. Marco stepped inside, holding a dark leather folder.
“Boss,” Marco said, his voice low and dangerous. “We finished sweeping Caleb Dunn’s personal files and phone records before he succumbed to his injuries in the holding cellar.”
Adrian didn't turn his eyes away from Evelyn. “Who paid him?”
“It wasn't a local family,” Marco revealed, handing the folder to Adrian. “Caleb received three million dollars into a Swiss account three days ago. The wire originated from a shell corporation controlled by the Russian Syndicate in New York—specifically, Viktor Dragunov.”
Adrian’s hand tightened around Evelyn’s fingers.
Viktor Dragunov.
The ruthless Russian Pakhan who had been trying to seize control of the Boston shipping docks for five years. Dragunov was the same man Adrian suspected had ordered the car bomb that killed his wife eleven months ago, though no hard evidence had ever linked him to the attack.
“Dragunov knew you were consolidating the eastern ports this week,” Marco continued. “He wanted to break you, Boss. He knew if he killed the twins, you would lose your mind and destroy yourself, leaving the docks wide open for his cartel.”
Adrian stood up slowly.
The soft, tender expression on his face vanished completely, replaced by an ancient, terrifying darkness that made Marco instinctively step back.
Adrian leaned down, resting his forehead gently against Evelyn’s cold hand.
“Rest, Evelyn,” Adrian whispered. “I will make sure the world is safe for you when you wake up.”
May you like
He straightened his back, turning to Marco with eyes like molten lead.
“Call the captains,” Adrian ordered, his voice echoing off the sterile walls like a death sentence. “Mobilize every soldier we have from Maine to Rhode Island. We are going to war.”
