Chapter 3 - The Fever and the Fortress
When I returned to the shoe-shine room, Zoe was still sitting behind the wardrobe. Her voice had dropped to a tired whisper. "...ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred."
"You did perfectly," I said, lifting her back into my arms.
She immediately buried her face in my shoulder, the black polish on her cheek transferring onto the lapel of my expensive wool coat. I didn't care. For the first time in my life, the ruin of my wardrobe felt entirely inconsequential.
"Where is your mother’s quarters?" I asked as I carried her up the service stairs, away from the violence below.
"In the attic wing, past the linen closets," she murmured, her eyes blinking heavily against the exhaustion of her midnight vigil.
The attic rooms were reserved for the live-in domestic staff—small but comfortable spaces I had insisted on maintaining with proper heating and ventilation, a rarity among other mafia households who treated their servants like property. I pushed open the door to room 204.
The air inside was thick with heat and the sharp scent of menthol rubbing alcohol. Laying on the twin bed was Sarah Williams, the woman who had kept my estate running smoothly for the past three years. Her skin was flushed a dangerous crimson, her hair matted to her forehead with sweat. She was tossing restlessly, her lips moving in a silent, delirious chant about shoe cream and schedules.
I laid Zoe down on the small armchair in the corner, covering her with a spare blanket. Then, I approached the bed and placed the back of my hand against Sarah’s forehead. She was burning—easily a hundred and three degrees.
I pulled out my phone and dialed my private physician, Dr. Aris. "Get to the estate immediately. Use the western service entrance. The main gate is closed for maintenance."
“Leo? Is it an emergency? Are you hit?” Aris asked, his voice instantly alert.
"Not me," I said, looking at the shivering woman on the bed. "One of my staff. Severe fever, likely advanced pneumonia. Bring whatever you need to stabilize her here. I want an ICU-grade setup running in this room within the hour."
“I’m on my way.”
I hung up and looked around the small room. On the dresser sat a collection of small drawings—all done in crayon. There were pictures of the garden, pictures of the kitchen staff, and several drawings of a tall man in a dark suit with a blank face. Me. But in those drawings, there were no red X's. I was always drawn standing between the house and the edge of the paper, like a wall.
Sarah opened her eyes slightly, her gaze glassy and unfocused. "Mr... Mr. Romano?" she gasped, trying to sit up, her hands immediately clutching the thin sheets. "I'm sorry... the shoes... I'll do them now. Please don't throw us out. Zoe needs the clinic..."
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I pressed her back down gently, my large hand covering her shoulder. "The shoes are done, Sarah. They’re perfect. Rest now. The doctor is coming."
She stared at me for a second, the terror in her eyes slowly giving way to confusion, then relief, before the fever pulled her back under the surface of consciousness. I stood by the bed for a long time, watching her chest rise and fall, realizing that while I had been fighting a war for territory in New York, a different kind of survival battle had been fought right above my head.
