Chapter 1 - Beyond the Iron GatesThe heavy iron gates of The Sanctuary groaned open with a deep, hydraulic sigh, swallowing the Elite Palate van into the heart of the Catskill compound. Snow whipped across the floodlights like static electricity, painting everything in shades of silver and pitch black.
Artie shifted the van into park beside a massive stone portico that looked more like an entrance to a medieval fortress than a medical facility. Guards in tactical gear stood watch, their breath pluming in the freezing mountain air.
"Stay close to the catering equipment," Artie muttered, pulling his collar up against the biting wind as he killed the engine. "Don't look at anything you aren't paid to look at, and for God's sake, keep your hands off the silver."
"I'm here to feed researchers, Artie, not rob a museum," I whispered back, my hands trembling slightly inside my coat pockets.
The security check had been brutal. They had scanned my badge, confiscated my phone, and inspected every insulated food carrier as though it might contain a tactical explosive. But the thought of the two-thousand-dollar cash tip—and the oxygen bill waiting for Tommy back in Yonkers—was the anchor keeping my panic at bay.
Mateo, the scarred guard who had checked my ID at the gate, rapped sharply on the rear doors of the van. He pulled them open, letting a blast of freezing wind tear through the cabin.
"Out," Mateo commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "The research team is waiting in the main dining wing. But first, you have a priority delivery."
"Priority delivery?" I grabbed the lightweight aluminum rolling cart loaded with insulated soup urns and warm trays of braised beef. "I thought this was a general catering gig for twenty researchers."
"Plans change," Mateo said flatly, his dark eyes fixed on me with an unreadable intensity. "Follow me."
We navigated a labyrinth of sterile white corridors that contrasted sharply with the rustic stone exterior of the lodge. The floors were polished concrete, and the air hummed with the low, constant thrum of heavy-duty backup generators. Every few paces, security cameras tracked our movement, their small red lenses blinking like mechanical eyes.
As we turned a sharp corner down a wing marked RESTRICTED: LEVEL 4 MEDICAL, the atmosphere shifted abruptly. The antiseptic smell of hospital bleach grew overpowering, mingling with the faint, metallic tang of ozone and high-end medical equipment.
Guards stood outside a heavy double door reinforced with steel plating. A digital biometric keypad glowed red beside the handle.
"Wait here," Mateo ordered, tapping a code into the panel. The door hissed open, releasing a rush of warm, climate-controlled air that smelled of cedar, expensive cologne, and sterile cotton.
He gestured for me to wheel the cart inside.
"Just put the tray on the bedside table and leave. Do not speak. Do not touch anything else."
I swallowed hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Who is the patient?"
Mateo looked at me for a long, heavy moment. A muscle twitched in his scarred jaw.
"The man who owns this mountain," Mateo said quietly. "Lorenzo Romano."
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The name hit me like a physical blow. Even in Yonkers, even among people too busy surviving to read the papers, the name Romano was spoken in hushed tones—a phantom syndicate boss whispered about in federal indictments, waterfront corruption scandals, and unsolved disappearances across the Tri-State area.
Before I could process the terror of being locked in a room with the most dangerous man in the Northeast, Mateo shoved the cart forward, closed the heavy steel door behind me, and locked it from the outside.
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