Chapter 2 - The House of GlassThe private penthouse atop the harbor tower was less of a home and more of a fortress designed by an architect with severe paranoia. Bulletproof laminated glass spanned the entire northern wall, offering a sweeping, panoramic view of the Boston skyline draped in gray pre-dawn mist. Minimalist steel furniture, dark leather, and towering bookshelves filled with leather-bound ledgers gave the space an austere, almost monastic feel.
Penny stood rigidly near the elevator doors, refusing to sit on any of the impossibly expensive furniture. Her black service skirt was stained with whiskey and dust, and her bare legs were freezing.
Leo Mercer walked past her carrying a heavy tactical case, nodding once to Matteo before disappearing down a hallway.
Matteo poured two fingers of amber liquid into a heavy crystal tumbler without looking at her. “Drink this.”
“I’ve had enough tequila to last a lifetime, thank you.”
“It’s scotch. It won't cure your hangover, but it will stop your teeth from chattering.” He set the glass down on a low marble table and pulled a sleek, encrypted tablet from his pocket. He tapped the screen three times, and the massive wall-mounted display flickered to life, showing architectural schematics and high-resolution surveillance stills.
“Look at this,” Matteo said, gesturing to the screen.
Penny hesitated, then walked over slowly, keeping a safe three-foot distance between them. The images on the screen showed the interior of the Velvet Room from multiple angles—including footage from camera angles she hadn't known existed.
“That’s the bar,” she muttered.
“That is sector four,” Matteo corrected. “And this,” he swiped the screen, bringing up a freeze-frame of the man in the gray jacket, “is Victor Reyes. A high-level enforcer out of Providence working for the Marcone family. They’ve been trying to muscle into Boston shipping routes for six months.”
“So it was about you,” Penny said, crossing her arms defensively. “Your turf war. Your enemies.”
“Look closer at his trajectory, Penny,” Matteo said, his voice dropping into a register that commanded absolute attention. He zoomed in on the freeze-frame. The digital crosshairs weren't centered on Matteo’s chest. They were locked squarely on the space three inches to his left—right where Penny had been standing when she jabbed her finger into his suit.
Penny stared at the screen, her breath hitching. The crosshairs weren't tracking the mob boss.
They were tracking her.
“That doesn't make sense,” she stammered, shaking her head. “I’m a bartender. I work double shifts to pay for my mother's nurse. I don't know anyone in Providence. I don't even know what a Marcone is!”
“Neither do most people until they become collateral damage,” Matteo said, walking toward her with slow, measured steps. “Victor Reyes doesn't make mistakes. When a professional shooter opens fire in a crowded room, he has a primary objective. My security detail was positioned to intercept me. But Reyes ignored them. He lined up his shot past my shoulder.”
“At me,” Penny whispered, the reality crashing down with the weight of a physical blow.
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“At you,” Matteo confirmed. He stopped just inches away, towering over her. The scent of cedarwood and faint gunpowder filled the air between them. “Someone in my inner circle—or someone very close to your ordinary, quiet life—believes you possess something, or know something, that makes you a liability.”
Penny looked up into his dark, unreadable eyes, feeling the terrifying vertigo of a person standing on the edge of a cliff. Her twenty-sixth birthday was turning out to be an execution notice, and the most feared man in Boston was the only thing standing between her and a shallow grave in the harbor.
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