Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO BOUGHT EVERYTHING“Really?”
Josephine’s voice was quiet.
That should have warned Roman.
Instead, he stood beneath the dripping fire escape with one hand inside his overcoat and watched her anger build like the storm that had brought him to her door four nights earlier.
“I paid your rent because the men who shot me saw me enter this building,” he said.
Josephine froze.
The anger did not disappear.
It changed.
“What?”
Roman glanced toward the mouth of the alley.
A black sedan sat across the street with its lights off.
“Two men followed me that night.”
“And you thought maybe that was worth mentioning before now?”
“I lost them.”
“You were unconscious on my couch.”
“I was not unconscious.”
“You called my lamp your father.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“That was the medication.”
“I gave you ibuprofen.”
For half a second, he looked almost embarrassed.
Josephine might have enjoyed it if her pulse were not suddenly hammering.
She followed his eyes toward the black sedan.
“Are they watching me?”
“No.”
“That answer came too fast.”
Roman’s expression hardened.
“They were watching the building yesterday.”
Josephine stared at him.
A city bus groaned along the wet avenue behind them. Somewhere overhead, somebody shut a window. Ordinary sounds. Ordinary lives.
Josephine felt hers tilt sideways.
“You brought armed men to my home.”
“I didn’t bring them.”
“You brought whatever this is.”
She gestured at him.
“Whoever you are. Whatever you do.”
Roman said nothing.
That frightened her more than a confession.
Josephine stepped closer.
“You’re going to tell me your full name.”
His eyes sharpened.
“Josephine.”
“Now.”
“Knowing it won’t make you safer.”
“I stitched a hole in your body while a gun was under your coat. I think we passed safe four days ago.”
Roman looked at the sedan again.
Then back at her.
“Roman DeLuca.”
Josephine felt the name before she understood why.
She had heard it.
Not at work.
Not in any ordinary conversation.
On the news.
DeLuca Holdings owned warehouses, trucking contracts, restaurants, commercial properties, and half a dozen waterfront redevelopment projects across Massachusetts.
But there were other stories.
Whispers.
Federal investigations.
Disappearances.
Men who suddenly stopped testifying.
Businesses that changed owners after fires.
The DeLuca name was spoken in Boston the way people discussed winter black ice.
Carefully.
“You’re that Roman DeLuca.”
“I’m Roman DeLuca.”
“That was not an answer.”
“It was the only one you’re getting tonight.”
Josephine laughed once without humor.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
She turned toward the street.
Roman caught her elbow.
Not hard.
Still, she stopped.
“Let go.”
He did immediately.
Progress.
“You need to stay somewhere else for a few days,” he said.
“No.”
“They know this address.”
“No.”
“I have a secure apartment in Back Bay.”
“No.”
“Josephine—”
“You don’t get to move me like furniture because your life exploded into mine.”
His face went still.
“My life didn’t explode into yours.”
“You bled through my door.”
“They targeted me.”
“And now somebody is sitting across from my building with their lights off.”
Roman looked at the sedan.
The rear lights suddenly flashed.
Then the vehicle pulled away.
Josephine’s stomach tightened.
Roman’s phone buzzed.
He read the screen.
Whatever he saw erased the last trace of humor from his face.
“What?” Josephine asked.
Nothing.
“Roman.”
He lifted the phone to his ear.
“Talk.”
A man’s voice responded too faintly for Josephine to understand.
Roman listened for less than ten seconds.
Then he said, “Lock the east entrance. Nobody leaves.”
He ended the call.
Josephine folded her arms.
“That sounded healthy.”
“You should go upstairs.”
“No.”
His eyes met hers.
“Someone broke into one of my properties.”
“Your criminal property or your tax-paying property?”
“Tonight there may not be much difference.”
“Roman.”
For the first time, his control cracked.
“My sister is missing.”
Josephine stopped.
Everything else fell away.
“What?”
Roman stared at his phone.
“Elena was staying in a house outside Cambridge.”
“Was she involved in whatever happened to you?”
“No.”
“Does she know what you do?”
“She knows enough to hate me for it.”
His mouth flattened.
“She’s eight months pregnant.”
Josephine’s professional instincts rose instantly.
“How many weeks?”
“Thirty-four.”
“Any medical problems?”
Roman looked at her.
“How would I know?”
Josephine’s stare could have cut steel.
“You’re her brother.”
“She stopped taking my calls four months ago.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
Roman rubbed his forehead.
“She had high blood pressure at her last appointment.”
Josephine’s irritation disappeared.
“Pre-eclampsia?”
“I don’t know.”
“Protein in her urine? Headaches? Swelling? Vision changes?”
“I said I don’t know.”
His voice sharpened.
Then he looked away.
For the first time since she had met him, Roman DeLuca looked helpless.
Josephine hated how quickly that changed things.
“Who took her?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Who would?”
His eyes returned to hers.
“Too many people.”
A cold pressure settled under Josephine’s ribs.
Roman dialed another number.
This time someone answered immediately.
“Find Matteo,” Roman said. “And call St. Vincent’s, Brigham, Mass General, every private practice she’s used. Quietly.”
He paused.
“No police.”
Josephine shook her head.
Roman saw it.
“We’re not doing this.”
“We?”
“If a thirty-four-week pregnant woman with possible pre-eclampsia has been abducted, you call the police.”
“My sister’s last name is DeLuca.”
“That doesn’t exempt her from being a human being.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
Roman stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“If the police move publicly, the men who have her will assume I’m using law enforcement as cover for retaliation. They may move her. Or kill her.”
Josephine hated that his logic sounded plausible.
“You have proof she was taken?”
Roman showed her his phone.
A photograph filled the screen.
A living room.
Broken lamp.
Overturned chair.
Blood on white carpet.
And in the center, one small yellow baby blanket.
Josephine swallowed.
“Is that blood hers?”
“We don’t know.”
“Then stop standing here.”
Roman blinked.
“What?”
“Take me to the house.”
“No.”
“You don’t know if she was injured. I can identify medical supplies, medication, signs of obstetric complications.”
“No.”
“Roman.”
“You are not entering this.”
“I entered this when somebody watched my building.”
His stare turned cold.
“I’m not putting you near people who would use a pregnant woman to make a point.”
Josephine stepped forward until barely a foot remained between them.
“Your sister is thirty-four weeks pregnant, possibly hypertensive, missing, and there is blood where she was staying.”
She pointed toward his chest.
“You can be offended by my tone after we find her.”
Roman’s phone rang again.
He answered.
“Yeah.”
His face changed.
“When?”
Silence.
“Send me the address.”
He disconnected.
Josephine waited.
Roman said nothing.
“Where?”
“They found her car.”
“Where?”
“South Boston.”
“Was she in it?”
“No.”
Josephine grabbed her coat tighter.
“Then let’s go.”
Roman stared at her.
“You have no idea what you’re walking into.”
Josephine met his eyes.
“No. But unlike you, I know exactly what can happen to a woman at thirty-four weeks when her blood pressure turns dangerous.”
Roman’s jaw worked.
Finally, he opened the rear door of a black SUV parked beyond the alley.
“You stay beside me.”
“I don’t take orders well.”
“I noticed.”
She climbed inside.
Three men occupied the vehicle.
Every one of them looked armed.
The largest, sitting opposite Josephine, stared at her.
“This her?”
Roman slid in beside her.
“Yes.”
The man looked at Josephine’s hospital sneakers and grocery-store coat.
“This is the woman who patched you up?”
Josephine stared back.
“This is the man who asks questions about me while I’m sitting two feet away?”
The giant blinked.
Roman closed his eyes briefly.
“Josephine Mercer, meet Dominic Vale.”
Dominic’s mouth curved.
“I like her.”
“I don’t care,” Roman said.
The SUV accelerated into the Boston night.
Twenty minutes later, they reached an abandoned textile warehouse near the harbor.
Elena’s car stood behind it.
Driver door open.
Blood on the seat.
Josephine climbed out before Roman could stop her.
“Josephine.”
She ignored him.
The blood pattern was wrong.
Too little for a catastrophic injury.
More smeared than pooled.
She leaned inside.
Then she saw something beneath the passenger seat.
A prescription bottle.
Josephine picked it up using the edge of her sleeve.
Labetalol.
Blood pressure medication.
The bottle was nearly full.
But it had been filled twelve days earlier.
“She wasn’t taking this regularly,” Josephine said.
Roman’s face darkened.
“How can you tell?”
“Too many pills left.”
She searched the floor.
Then she found a torn pharmacy receipt.
On the back, written in blue ink, were four words.
NOT SAFE WITH MATTEO.
Roman took it from her.
For several seconds, he did not breathe.
Dominic stepped closer.
“Boss?”
Roman looked toward the warehouse.
His voice became frighteningly calm.
“Find my cousin.”
A scream echoed from inside.
Everyone turned.
Josephine knew that sound.
She had heard it hundreds of times.
Pain.
Pressure.
Fear.
Labor.
“Elena,” Roman whispered.
Josephine ran.
Roman caught her around the waist.
“No.”
“She’s in labor!”
Another scream ripped through the warehouse.
Josephine tore free.
“Then every second you argue with me is a second your niece or nephew may not have.”
She ran through the open loading door.
Roman followed.
Inside, beneath hanging industrial lights, Elena DeLuca lay tied to a metal chair.
Water soaked the floor beneath her.
Her membranes had ruptured.
Her swollen face was streaked with tears.
And standing behind her with a gun pressed against her temple was a man whose face looked enough like Roman’s to make Josephine understand immediately.
Matteo.
Roman stopped.
His cousin smiled.
“Brother,” Matteo said softly.
Roman raised his weapon.
Matteo pressed the gun harder against Elena.
“Drop it.”
Josephine looked at Elena’s trembling hands.
Then at the blood pressure cuff lying on the floor.
The digital screen still glowed.
191 over 124.
Josephine’s heart stopped.
“Elena,” she said.
Elena’s eyes found hers.
“Who are you?”
“I’m the woman who’s going to keep you and your baby alive.”
Matteo laughed.
Roman did not.
Because he had seen the blood pressure too.
And for the first time that night, the mafia boss understood something more frightening than a gun.
May you like
His sister did not have hours.
She might not have minutes.
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