Chapter 3 - The Shadow of the Bertonellis
The east guest suite was larger than the entire apartment Nora had shared with Greg on 4th Street. It featured vaulted ceilings, dark walnut paneling, a king-sized bed wrapped in crisp white Egyptian cotton, and a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked a manicured stone terrace and the black abyss of the surrounding forest.
Dr. Wyatt had worked in absolute, professional silence. He had cleansed the split on her lip, applied a flexible butterfly bandage, strapped her fractured ribs with medical tape that felt like a tight steel corset, and forced her to swallow two non-narcotic painkillers that were already dulling the sharpest edges of her agony.
Now, at two in the morning, Nora stood in front of the massive bathroom mirror, wearing a soft, gray cashmere sweater and sweatpants that had been left on the bed for her. They smelled faintly of laundry lavender and expensive store vaults—brand new, tags removed.
She touched her cheek. The purple stain had spread, creeping from her cheekbone down to her jawline. She looked battered, discarded, and exhausted. But as she stared into her own dark brown eyes, she realized the hollow, dead look that Lorenzo had noticed at the restaurant was starting to fracture.
In its place was a sharp, cold grain of anger.
A soft knock at the heavy mahogany door made her jump. She froze, her muscles tensing beneath the cotton bandages.
“Miss Hayes.”
It was Vincent’s gravelly voice from the hallway.
Nora walked slowly to the door, pulling it open three inches. Vincent stood in the softly lit corridor, his massive frame blocking out the light from the wall sconces. He had removed his heavy overcoat, revealing a dark shoulder holster holding a heavy matte-black pistol.
“The boss wants to see you,” Vincent said. “In the study.”
“It’s two in the morning,” she said.
“Mr. Costa doesn't sleep much,” Vincent replied flatly. “And we have a situation.”
Nora swallowed hard, nodding once. She stepped out into the hallway, following the giant down the long, carpeted corridor to a set of double oak doors at the far end of the west wing.
Vincent pushed the doors open without knocking and stepped aside.
The study was massive, lined from floor to ceiling with leather-bound books, ancient maps, and framed black-and-white photographs of early-century Italian ports. A fire crackled quietly in a massive stone hearth, casting dancing orange shadows across a heavy mahogany desk where Lorenzo sat.
He had stripped off his suit jacket and rolled his crisp white shirt sleeves up to his elbows, revealing thick, muscular forearms corded with veins and pale, jagged scars. A glass of scotch sat untouched at his right hand, next to three black cellular phones and a spread of printed paper documents.
Standing across from the desk was Thomas, along with two other men in dark, unbranded tactical gear.
“Sit, Nora,” Lorenzo said without looking up from a document he was reading.
She didn't argue this time. Her body was too tired for defiance. She sank into a low leather wingback chair near the fire, pulling the oversized cashmere sweater around her wrists.
Lorenzo set the paper down, picked up a pen, and made a quick, sharp notation before looking up at her. His eyes were bloodshot at the corners, but his focus was sharp, cold, and absolute.
“We have a development,” Lorenzo said, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers together over his stomach. “Your companion, Greg, was surprisingly cooperative once Vincent’s team explained the mathematics of his situation.”
Nora felt a knot form in her chest. “Where is he?”
“At a private medical facility three hours north of the city,” Lorenzo replied smoothly. “He has two broken fingers on his right hand, a fractured wrist, and a very sudden desire to relocate to Alaska. He gave us his ledger, his phone, and his complete financial history in exchange for a bus ticket and a guarantee that I wouldn't let the Bertonellis find him.”
Nora stared at him. “You let him go?”
“Greg is a pathetic, impotent parasite,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping an octave. “He is not a threat to me, nor is he worth the effort it takes to bury a body. But his debts remain. And three hours ago, Frank Bertonelli realized Greg was missing.”
Lorenzo gestured to Thomas, who stepped forward and placed a glossy black-and-white photograph on the small table beside Nora’s chair.
She looked down at it. The photo showed the exterior of her apartment building on 4th Street. Two heavy black SUVs were parked across the sidewalk. Three men in leather jackets were standing on the front steps, one of them holding a crowbar, the front door smashed off its hinges.
“They tossed your apartment twenty minutes after we left Le Clovis,” Lorenzo said flatly. “When they didn't find Greg, they found your financial records. They found your work schedule, your bank statements, and the lease agreement that bears your name.”
Nora felt the room spin slightly. “They... they destroyed my home.”
“They searched it,” Lorenzo corrected her. “Frank Bertonelli is not a strategist. He is a butcher who runs a collection racket. He assumes Greg ran because he couldn't pay, and he assumes you are either hiding with him or holding his assets. Frank has already put a twenty-thousand-dollar bounty on your head in the lower districts.”
“Twenty thousand?” Nora let out a hollow laugh. “I’m not worth twenty thousand dollars. I’m a junior accountant. My bank account has three thousand four hundred dollars in it.”
“To the men Frank hires, twenty thousand dollars is enough to kill a person and burn the car,” Lorenzo said. He picked up his scotch, took a measured sip, and set the glass back down with a quiet thud. “You cannot go back to your job. You cannot go back to your apartment. As far as the city is concerned, Nora Hayes vanished at 9:30 PM last night.”
Nora stared into the crackling fire, her heart hammering against her taped ribs. The reality of her situation was settling over her like a suffocating blanket of ash. Everything she had worked for—her quiet, boring, predictable life, her small apartment, her tiny career—was gone. Obliterated in a single night because she had chosen to eat dinner with a coward who owed money to monsters.
“Why are you telling me this?” she whispered, looking back at Lorenzo. “Why didn't you just throw me to the street after you broke Greg’s hands? Why bring me here? Why spend money on doctors and guards for someone you don't even know?”
Lorenzo leaned forward, placing his forearms on the desk. The amber firelight caught the hard, sharp angles of his jawline.
“Because, Nora,” he said softly, “Frank Bertonelli made the mistake of sending his men into my territory to look for something that was taken from my restaurant. He thinks because I run an establishment with white tablecloths and vintage wine, I have become soft. He thinks he can operate in my city without asking permission.”
May you like
A cold, terrifying smile touched the corner of Lorenzo’s lips—a look that held no warmth, only a terrifying, predatory promise.
“You are no longer Greg’s buffer, Miss Hayes. You are my leverage. And tomorrow morning, Frank Bertonelli is going to learn what happens when he reaches for something that belongs to Lorenzo Costa.”
