Chapter 2 - The Ghost in the Study
Later that afternoon, Lucas sat behind his massive walnut desk, staring at a stack of shipping manifests from the Port of Newark. But the words were blurring together.
Every time he closed his eyes, he didn't see the container numbers or the bribe payouts to union bosses. He saw two crooked braids, a faded pink pajama shirt, and a little girl pressing a plastic inhaler to his lips, whispering, Please don't die.
A soft knock sounded at the heavy oak door.
“Come in,” Lucas muttered.
The door creaked open, and Rosa DeLuca stepped inside, carrying a silver tray with a cup of black coffee. Rosa had worked for the Moretti family for thirty years. She had changed Lucas’s diapers, buried his father, and held his hand at Isabella’s funeral. She was the only person in the world who could talk back to him without fear of retaliation.
Rosa set the coffee down on the corner of the desk with a sharp clink.
“You look like death, Lucas,” Rosa said, crossing her arms over her black apron. “Dr. Vance called. He said you missed your cardiology check-up on Tuesday.”
“I was busy,” Lucas said, not looking up from his papers.
“Busy doing what? Sitting in this mausoleum drinking whiskey and pretending your life ended three years ago?” Rosa sighed, her stern face softening just a fraction. “The new housekeeper is downstairs. Mrs. Carter. A good woman. Quiet. Works hard. Her husband passed away last year from cancer, left her with nothing. She’s living in a shelter in the Bronx before I brought her in.”
Lucas’s pen stopped scratching across the paper. “A shelter?”
“Yes. And her little girl—Lily—has bad lungs. The dampness in those city shelters is killing the child. That’s why she was wandering the halls today. She was looking for a glass of water because her throat was dry from the coughing.” Rosa leaned down, her dark eyes pinning him in place. “You remember what it’s like to watch someone suffocate, Lucas? Or did you forget that too?”
The words hit him like a physical blow.
Lucas’s jaw tightened. He remembered the rain on the Brooklyn Bridge. He remembered the smoke. He remembered screaming his son’s name into an empty night.
“Watch your tongue, Rosa,” Lucas warned quietly.
“I’ve watched it for thirty years, and I’ll watch it until I’m in the ground,” Rosa snapped back. She pointed a finger toward the window overlooking the manicured rose gardens. “That little girl saved your life today. If you hadn't been too proud to carry your own spare inhaler, you’d be in a coffin right now. The least you can do is let her and her mother stay in the carriage house on the north side of the estate. It’s heated. It has a kitchen. It’s better than a basement in the Bronx.”
Lucas stared at the coffee cup, watching the dark liquid ripple.
“The carriage house is empty?” he asked.
“Has been since the old gardener died two years ago,” Rosa replied. “Clean it out, put them in there. It’ll cost you nothing, and it might just buy you a fraction of grace with whatever God is left watching this family.”
Without waiting for his answer, Rosa turned and walked out, closing the door softly behind her.
Lucas sat alone in the silence of the study. He leaned back in his leather chair, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands.
Grace. That was a word he hadn't heard since Isabella used to play the piano in the sunroom.
He stood up, walking over to the tall arched window that looked out over the sprawling grounds. Down below, near the edge of the fountain, he saw a flash of pink.
Lily was crouched on the grass, carefully examining a yellow dandelion. Her mother stood a few feet away, watching her with a gentle, sad smile, brushing a stray curl from her forehead.
As Lucas watched them, a strange, heavy knot formed in his chest. It wasn't pain, exactly. It was something more dangerous—a feeling of awakening in a tomb he had spent three years building for himself.
He turned away from the window and walked over to the corner of the study, where a heavy velvet curtain covered something that hadn't seen the light of day since the funeral.
With a steady hand, Lucas pulled the curtain back.
There stood Isabella’s mahogany baby grand piano, its surface covered in a thick layer of dust. On top of it sat a framed photograph of a smiling four-year-old boy with dark curls and mischief in his eyes—Daniel.
Lucas reached out, his fingertips brushing the cold glass of the frame.
“What are you playing at?” he whispered to the empty room.
As if in answer, his phone buzzed on the desk.
It was a text message from an unknown number, routed through a secure, encrypted proxy server that only one person in his inner circle used.
The brake lines on the Mercedes weren't cut by a rival family, boss, the text read. Check the financial audits from the Jersey warehouse project three years ago. Follow the signature on Victor Romano’s private offshore account.
Lucas froze.
Victor Romano. His closest friend. The man who had held him while he cried on the bridge. The man who had sworn vengeance on his enemies.
A cold, deadly fury—sharp and absolute—replaced the numbness in Lucas’s veins.
May you like
The game was changing. And this time, he wasn't going to mourn.
He was going to hunt.
