Chapter 2 - THE BLOOD ON THE MARBLEThe corridors of the Donovan estate were built in 1922 by men who understood that power was a temporary lease granted by those willing to use force. High plaster ceilings, dark mahogany wainscoting, and thick wool carpets that swallowed the sound of footsteps created an atmosphere that felt more like a European cathedral than a residence in coastal Massachusetts.
Chase moved through the shadowed hallway like a shadow himself. He knew every squeaking floorboard, every hidden panel, every blind spot in the analog camera system his father had installed forty years prior. Vince Caro had upgraded the digital security six months ago, claiming it was to “bring the family into the twenty-first century.” Now Chase understood why: Vince hadn’t upgraded the security to keep enemies out; he had upgraded it to control the doors from his own phone.
As Chase reached the upper balcony overlooking the grand foyer, he heard voices rising from the library below.
“—he’s still upstairs,” a voice said. It was heavy, thick with a Brooklyn accent. Not one of Chase’s local boys. Falcone’s men. “Vince said wait until 5:15. Once the fire team in Chicago confirms Bass’s body is identified, we go up and finish Donovan.”
“What about the staff?” another voice asked.
“Vince said there’s only a night maid in the basement. He’s taking care of her himself right now.”
Chase’s blood went cold.
Hannah.
Chase didn’t hesitate. He abandoned his plan to confront Vince in the library. He turned on his heel and moved silently down the narrow service staircase that led directly to the estate’s lower levels—a maze of stone corridors, wine cellars, laundry rooms, and boiler facilities that spanned the entire footprint of the house.
The smell of bleach and damp cotton grew stronger as he descended.
Near the main laundry room, the harsh fluorescent lights flickered overhead. Chase flattened his back against the cool whitewashed brick wall and peered around the corner.
At the end of the hall, near the heavy steel doors of the industrial ironers, stood Vincent Caro.
Vince looked immaculate, as he always did. At fifty-eight, his graying hair was slicked back with expensive pomade, his tailored navy suit fitted tightly to his broad shoulders. On his right pinky, the heavy gold signet ring featuring the crest of the old-country syndicate glinted under the flickering light.
In front of him, backed against a stack of folded white table linens, was Hannah Marlow.
She was thirty-two, thin, wearing a faded navy blue domestic uniform. Her hands were raised in front of her, trembling violently, but her face was set in a mask of desperate maternal fury.
“I don’t know where she is!” Hannah cried out, her voice echoing off the concrete floor. “She was sleeping in the break room! She’s just a little girl, Mr. Caro! Please!”
“She wasn’t in the break room, Hannah,” Vince said, his voice smooth, sickeningly patient, like an uncle explaining a rule to a child. “And she was seen on the second floor ten minutes ago. Now, I like you, Hannah. You’re a hard worker. Chase paid for your kid’s heart operation out of the family slush fund—did you know that? He didn’t even tell you. He thought he was playing God. But God doesn’t live in this house anymore, Hannah. I do.”
Vince reached inside his jacket and pulled out a sleek, snub-nosed revolver with a fitted suppressor.
“Where did she go?” Vince asked softly. “Tell me, and I’ll make sure you both get on a bus to Florida by noon.”
“She’s seven years old!” Hannah sobbed. “She doesn’t know anything!”
“She knows enough to walk into an office she had no business being in,” Vince said, raising the gun. “Last chance, Hannah.”
“She’s not going to tell you a damn thing, Vince,” Chase said, stepping out from the shadow of the boiler room entrance.
Vince froze. Slowly, he turned his head, his dark eyes widening slightly before settling into a cruel, knowing smile. He didn’t lower the gun from Hannah.
“Chase,” Vince said smoothly. “You’re up early. I thought you were taking a long sleep today.”
“Drop the gun, Vince,” Chase said, his Sig Sauer pointed directly at the center of Vince’s forehead.
“Now why would I do that?” Vince chuckled softly. “We’re family, Chase. Your father gave me half of this territory on his deathbed. You were nineteen when you took the big chair. You were a boy playing with adult toys. I built the distribution networks. I paid off the judges. I made sure the trucks crossed the Canadian border without getting searched. And what did I get? A ten percent cut and a bedroom in the west wing like a glorified butler.”
“You got loyalty,” Chase said. “You got protection. My father trusted you.”
“Your father was an old man who lost his nerve!” Vince spat, his calm demeanor slipping for a fraction of a second. “He thought we could go clean! He thought shipping olive oil and running legal real estate was enough! Marco Falcone offered me fifty percent of the entire Eastern Seaboard. All I had to do was give him you, Bass, and the family ledgers.”
“You killed Bass?” Chase asked, his voice deathly still.
“Bass was an old dog who needed to be put down,” Vince sneered. “Just like that stupid lab of yours you used to cry over.”
That was the mistake.
Vince didn’t even see Chase move.
Chase fired once. The suppressed round hit Vince precisely in the right shoulder joint, shattering the bone and sending the snub-nosed revolver clattering across the wet concrete floor.
Vince screamed, staggering back against the linen rack, clutching his ruined shoulder as dark blood began to pool through his navy suit jacket.
Hannah screamed and collapsed to her knees, hiding her face in her hands.
Chase stepped forward, his face an emotionless mask of stone. He kicked the fallen revolver into the dark drain under the laundry sink, then reached down, grabbed Vince by the collar of his expensive suit, and slammed him face-first into the heavy steel edge of the industrial press.
“Where is Falcone’s strike team?” Chase growled into Vince’s ear.
Vince coughed, blood flecking his lips, but he managed a wet, defiant laugh. “They’re... already... inside, Chase. Four on the ground floor. Two at the gate. Three in Chicago... making sure Bass’s body burns... You’re done. The whole city... belongs to Falcone by sunrise.”
Chase dragged Vince by the hair, forcing his head back to look into his eyes. “You forgot one thing, Vince.”
“What’s... what’s that?” Vince gasped.
“You brought New York hitmen into a Boston house,” Chase whispered. “They don’t know where the priest’s hole is.”
Before Vince could respond, Chase drove the heavy butt of his pistol into the side of Vince’s jaw, knocking him instantly unconscious. Vince crumpled to the floor like a sack of wet laundry.
Chase turned to Hannah. She was shaking, staring at the pool of blood spreading near her feet.
“Hannah,” Chase said, stepping over Vince’s limp body and kneeling beside her. His voice softened, losing the lethal edge it had carried moments before. “Look at me.”
She slowly looked up, her tear-streaked face pale with terror.
“Quinn is safe,” Chase said clearly. “She’s with Sparrow. Do you know who Sparrow is?”
Hannah nodded weakly. “The... the quiet old gentleman from the carriage house.”
“He is going to take you and Quinn away from here right now,” Chase said. He pulled a heavy leather wallet from his inner pocket, pulled out a stack of pristine, unrecorded hundred-dollar bills, and pressed them into her cold hands. “Go out through the coal chute at the end of this hallway. Sparrow is waiting in the conservatory. Do not go back upstairs. Do not look for your belongings. Do you understand?”
“Mr. Donovan...” Hannah gasped, her fingers clutching the cash. “Why are you doing this for us? Quinn said... she said you were the one who paid for her surgery...”
Chase closed his eyes for a split second, feeling a strange, heavy ache in his chest.
“Because your daughter saw something good in me that I lost a long time ago,” Chase said quietly. “Now go. Save your girl.”
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Hannah stared at him for a moment, then reached out, her fingers catching the sleeve of his coat. “Please don't die in this terrible house, Mr. Donovan.”
“It’s just brick and wood, Hannah,” Chase said as he stood up. “I’ve been dead inside it for fifteen years.”
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