Chapter 4 - The Fortress
The Castellano estate in Bloomfield Hills did not look like a mob house from the movies.
It looked like an ancient European monastery made of gray limestone, surrounded by thirty acres of dense forest and high iron fences topped with subtle security sensors.
When the Lincoln town car dropped Beatrice at the front steps, Marco Vance was waiting for her. He looked even less pleased to see her today than he had at the hospital.
"In here," he grunted, leading her through massive oak doors into a grand hall lined with oil paintings and marble floors.
"Where is he?" Beatrice asked, her heavy boots clicking loudly against the polished stone.
"In his office. He hasn't slept in thirty-six hours," Marco said, his jaw tight. "The Moretti family is moving on our east side docks. We lost two shipments last night. He's running the operation from his desk while his fever is at 101."
Beatrice stopped in her tracks. "He has a fever?"
"He says he's fine."
"He's an idiot," Beatrice snapped.
She pushed past Marco, following the sound of low, heated voices down a wood-paneled corridor.
She yanked open the doors to a massive library.
Inside, six senior capos were gathered around a dark mahogany desk covered in maps, satellite photos, and three laptop screens.
At the center stood Leonardo.
He was wearing a dark blue shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the thick white bandage still taped across his chest. His face was flushed, his blue eyes glittered with unnatural heat, and he was leaning heavily against the desk with both hands while shouting at a man twice his age.
"—if Moretti thinks he can take Pier 14 just because I took a bullet, I will show him how we handled the riverfront in 2018!" Leonardo roared, his voice cracking slightly.
"Mr. Castellano," Beatrice’s voice cut through the shouting like a foghorn.
Every man in the room turned.
Leonardo froze. The anger in his face instantly vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated surprise.
Beatrice marched across the Persian rug, ignoring the six armed men who reached instinctively for their belts. She walked right up to the mahogany desk, pulled a digital thermometer from her bag, and shoved it directly into Leonardo's mouth before he could open it to speak.
"Beep," she said.
Leonardo stood there, his mouth clamped around the small plastic probe, staring at her with wide blue eyes.
The capos looked at each other in absolute horror.
Three seconds passed. The thermometer beeped.
Beatrice pulled it out and looked at the display. "101.8. You have early-stage localized inflammation, likely from standing around in a freezing room with six men who breathe through their mouths."
"Beatrice—" Leonardo started.
"Meeting over," Beatrice announced, turning to face the six crime bosses. "Out. All of you. Go home, wash your hands, and stop stressing my patient."
Nobody moved. An older man with silver hair stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. "Who the hell is this woman?"
"She is the person who will leave you to bled out in an alley if you don't clear this room in ten seconds," Beatrice said without blinking.
Leonardo let out a raspy laugh, leaning back against his desk. He waved a hand at his men. "You heard her. Leave the maps. We'll finish this at six."
The capos grumbled, but under Leonardo's sharp gaze, they filed out of the room one by one, leaving Marco standing near the door like a sentinel.
"You too, Marco," Leonardo said quietly.
Marco hesitated. "Boss..."
"Out, Marco."
The heavy oak doors clicked shut, leaving Beatrice and Leonardo alone in the vast, book-lined room.
The silence settled quickly. Leonardo seemed to deflate slightly, the tension leaving his big frame as the fever claimed his energy. He dropped heavily into his high-backed leather chair, closing his eyes with a long exhale.
Beatrice pulled a small medical light from her pocket. "Shirt off."
Leonardo opened one eye, a smirk touching his lips. "At least buy me dinner first, Gallagher."
"I've seen your lungs, Leonardo. Nothing you have beneath that shirt is a mystery to me. Buttons. Now."
He complied slowly, his fingers slightly unsteady as he unbuttoned the navy silk.
Beatrice stepped close, leaning over him to peel back the dressing. The heat radiating off his chest was palpable. The skin around the sutures was pink, but not yet infected—just severely irritated by his refusal to rest.
As she worked, her fingers brushed against his collarbone.
Leonardo reached up, his large, warm hand covering hers where it rested against his chest.
Beatrice stopped. She looked down at his face.
He was looking up at her, all the armor, the danger, and the mob boss persona stripped away by the fever, leaving only the raw, powerful man beneath.
"Why did you come, Beatrice?" he asked softly.
"Your lawyer offered me three hundred and fifty thousand dollars," she lied flatly.
"You don't care about the money," he whispered, his thumb lightly stroking the back of her wrist. "You could have stayed at St. Vincent. You could have stayed safe."
May you like
Beatrice looked at his mouth, then back at his eyes.
"You're a terrible patient, Leonardo," she said softly, her voice losing its sharp edge for the very first time. "And I don't like leaving jobs unfinished."
