Chapter 2 - Secrets of the North DistrictThe rain had not let up by the time we reached the safehouse on 9th Street—a nondescript brick apartment complex hidden behind a wall of overgrown ivy. I left Elena under the care of Mrs. Gable, an elderly widow who owed her life to my late father. Mrs. Gable immediately wrapped the girl in a warm wool blanket, set down a bowl of hot chicken soup, and provided a small saucer of milk for Bruno.
"She won't be found here," Enzo muttered as we stood on the fire escape outside, water cascading off the brims of our hats. "Donati doesn't even know this building exists."
"Donati isn't the only one I'm worried about," I replied, striking a match against the wet brick to light another cigar. The flame flickered briefly before catching. "Think about it, Enzo. Who knew I was going to be at that pawnshop on 4th and Elm?"
Enzo went still. "Only three people knew about the compromised shipment meeting. You, me... and Vittorio."
"And Vittorio didn't send her," I said, watching the gray smoke rise into the storm. "He was surprised to see her. Which means there is a third shadow in this room, someone watching all of us from the high towers."
We took two cars into the heart of the North District, heading toward the residential block where Evelyn O'Shea lived. The neighborhood was a relic of the city's industrial boom—cramped walk-ups, rusted fire escapes, and streets that smelled permanently of rain and coal dust.
When we reached apartment 3B, the door was unlocked, swaying slightly on bent hinges.
I drew my suppressed Beretta, signaling for Enzo to take the right flank. We sliced through the doorway, clearing the small kitchen and narrow hallway in seconds.
The apartment had been tossed with brutal efficiency. Cushions were sliced open, drawers inverted onto the linoleum, and family photographs shattered on the floor. But it wasn't a standard burglary; someone was looking for something specific.
I stepped into the small master bedroom. On the nightstand sat a framed picture of a younger Evelyn O'Shea holding a newborn Elena, both of them smiling radiantly under a bright summer sun. Beside the frame was a stack of library books on regional history and maritime law.
"Boss," Enzo called from the closet. "Look at this."
I walked over. Enzo was pointing to the back wall of the closet, where the wallpaper had been carefully peeled back. Hidden behind the drywall was a small wall safe. The door was hanging open—drilled through with surgical precision.
"Professional work," I noted, touching the hot metal rim of the drill hole. "They used a high-speed diamond bit. This wasn't done by street thugs. Donati’s men are loud and messy. This is corporate work. Mercenaries."
"Why would an archivist have a high-security wall safe in a run-down apartment?" Enzo asked.
I knelt and reached inside the safe. It was empty, save for a single scrap of parchment that had been torn from a ledger. I pulled it out and held it up to the dim light bulb hanging from the ceiling.
Written in precise, elegant calligraphy was a list of dates going back thirty years, alongside a series of geographic coordinates in the North Atlantic. But at the bottom, written in fresh ink, was a name that made my blood run cold:
Matteo Moretti – Target Asset.
Evelyn O'Shea wasn't just a victim caught in the crossfire of mafia territorial disputes. She was keeping records on me.
Before I could process the discovery, the sharp crunch of footsteps echoed from the alley below the bedroom window.
"Down!" I shoved Enzo just as a hail of automatic gunfire shattered the window frame, spraying glass and wood splinters across the room.
We hit the floor, rolling behind the thick plaster walls of the hallway as bullets ripped through the apartment, tearing the remaining furniture to shreds. The muzzle flashes illuminated the rain outside like strobe lights, revealing three heavily armed figures in tactical gear descending the fire escape.
"They were waiting for us to search the place!" Enzo yelled over the deafening roar of the rifles.
"They didn't expect us to react this fast!" I pulled a fragmentation grenade from my tactical belt, pulled the pin with my teeth, and tossed it out the shattered window onto the fire escape platform.
"Granata!" a voice screamed outside in a harsh foreign accent.
Two seconds later, a violent explosion rocked the building. The fire escape collapsed in a twisted heap of iron and sparks, sending the attackers plunging three stories into the alley below.
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I rushed to the window, leaning out with my pistol raised. Two of the men lay motionless in the mud. The third, though badly injured, was dragging himself toward a black SUV idling at the end of the alleyway.
"Enzo, take him alive!" I shouted, vaulted over the sill, and slid down the drainpipe into the dark, rain-soaked night.
