Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN WHO DIDN’T TRUST THE MAFIA BOSS
We made it back to the mansion with one prisoner, one wounded attacker, one unconscious housekeeper, and a teddy bear containing evidence that could start a civil war.
I considered the night poorly organized.
Zoe saw us enter the service hall.
“Mama!”
Nico tried to hold her.
Failed.
She ran barefoot toward us.
I lowered Elena carefully onto a padded bench.
Zoe climbed beside her.
“Mama.”
Elena opened her eyes.
“Baby.”
“You’re burning.”
“I know.”
“I did your work.”
Even in pain, Elena’s face changed.
“What?”
Zoe pointed at me.
“His shoe.”
Elena looked at my face.
I lifted one hand.
“Later.”
“I used circles.”
“I am aware.”
Zoe looked proud.
Elena looked horrified.
“Mr. Romano, I’m so sorry.”
“Your child exposed an assassination plot. I am prepared to overlook footwear.”
That silenced everyone.
A doctor from my private medical team arrived through the lower garage eighteen minutes later.
Dr. Samuel Pierce had treated bullet wounds for my organization without asking questions that would shorten his career.
Tonight, the emergency was less criminal.
High fever.
Dehydration.
Possible kidney infection.
Concussion from being struck.
Elena required IV antibiotics.
Fluids.
Monitoring.
A hospital would have been better.
But with the estate under attack and Victor’s network unknown, moving her through public roads created risk.
Pierce set up inside a guest suite.
Zoe refused to leave.
So did Mr. Buttons.
I allowed both.
Then I went to my office.
Marco waited.
The captured attacker sat in a chair with his wrists restrained.
His name was Brandon Keele.
Former private military contractor.
No direct connection to my organization.
Useful.
Disposable.
Exactly the kind of man traitors hire.
I placed Zoe’s teddy bear on the desk.
The large button unscrewed.
Inside was a miniature lens.
There was no active transmitter now.
Elena had disconnected it.
But a microSD slot remained.
Empty.
The copy was in a bank box.
Maybe the original too.
I looked at Keele.
“Who installed this?”
He smiled.
“Cute kid.”
Marco hit him before I could.
Good.
“Answer.”
Keele spat blood.
“I don’t know.”
I sat behind the desk.
There is a misconception about interrogation.
People imagine shouting.
Violence.
Tools.
Pain.
Sometimes those work.
Often, time works better.
Silence.
Certainty.
Knowing the person across from you has already made peace with whatever happens next.
I looked at Keele.
“Victor is finished.”
No response.
“Lorenzo is exposed.”
His eyes shifted.
Small.
Enough.
Marco saw it too.
I leaned back.
“You were hired through Lorenzo.”
Keele said nothing.
“He needed me dead tonight.”
Nothing.
“Why tonight?”
That was the question.
Not why kill Adrian Romano.
Many men had reasons.
Why three days early?
Why prepare an ambush for a return that officially had not happened?
Because somebody knew I might come.
Victor.
But Victor had only learned that afternoon.
Could Lorenzo arrange a full assault in hours?
Maybe.
But the operation seemed prepared.
Surveillance.
Power control.
Inside access.
Multiple teams.
Elena’s bear had been bugged for at least two weeks.
That meant they were not reacting to my early return.
They had been preparing something for my scheduled return three days later.
Tonight simply forced the timetable forward.
“What was supposed to happen Friday?”
Keele’s jaw tightened.
I smiled.
There.
“Friday.”
Marco crossed his arms.
“The boss’s scheduled return.”
I continued.
“The perimeter goes dark.”
Silence.
“Victor controls security.”
Nothing.
“Lorenzo controls internal operations.”
Keele looked toward the floor.
“And I come through the main gate with a convoy.”
I pictured it.
My armored SUV entering.
Gate closes behind.
Security team already compromised.
Maybe explosives.
Maybe crossfire.
Maybe a staged attack blamed on New York.
Clean succession.
Lorenzo becomes head of the Romano organization.
He could claim revenge for my death.
Kill rivals.
Consolidate loyalty.
My cousin had learned from my father.
Unfortunately, so had I.
“What changes because I came early?”
Keele finally spoke.
“You weren’t supposed to be alone.”
His first sentence.
I waited.
He continued.
“Convoy was part of it.”
“How?”
He smiled faintly.
“No convoy, no box.”
“Box?”
Silence.
Marco stepped closer.
I lifted one hand.
Think.
A device.
Vehicle explosive?
Remote trigger?
Maybe Victor intended to place something inside the lead SUV.
“Where is Victor?”
Keele shook his head.
“Don’t know.”
“Lorenzo?”
“No idea.”
“Liar.”
“Probably.”
At least he had humor.
I stood.
“Put him downstairs.”
Marco took him.
Then the office door opened without permission.
Zoe.
Of course.
She stood holding a juice box.
“Nico said you’re busy.”
“I am.”
“He said not come in.”
“Correct.”
She entered anyway.
I looked toward the ceiling.
Children did not respect criminal hierarchy.
Zoe approached the desk.
“Is Mama okay?”
“Yes.”
“Doctor poked her.”
“He is helping.”
“She said bad word.”
I almost smiled.
“What word?”
Zoe leaned forward.
Then whispered something definitely not designed for four-year-olds.
I stared.
“Your mother and I will discuss vocabulary.”
“Are you mad?”
“No.”
She noticed the empty spot where Mr. Buttons had been.
Her face changed.
“Where bear?”
“In your mother’s room.”
She relaxed.
Then her eyes moved toward the crayon drawing.
I had placed it flat on the desk.
“Mine.”
“Yes.”
“You frame it?”
“Not yet.”
“You promised.”
“I said remind me.”
“I’m reminding.”
Fair.
I opened a drawer.
Found a document frame intended for legal certificates.
Marco returned as I was placing Zoe’s drawing inside.
He stopped.
“Seriously?”
I looked at him.
“Problem?”
“No, boss.”
Zoe smiled.
I hung the picture on the wall beside a nineteenth-century oil portrait of my grandfather.
The contrast was remarkable.
One violent old man.
One purple crayon gate.
Both warnings.
Zoe looked satisfied.
Then she pointed at another part of the drawing.
“What?”
“The blue man.”
I looked.
Earlier I had assumed the blue figure was Zoe.
Small.
Near the stone pillar.
But now I noticed something.
The blue figure was tall.
Zoe’s self-portraits always had enormous curls.
This figure had none.
“Who is blue?”
She answered immediately.
“Mr. Lorenzo.”
Marco froze.
I turned slowly.
“You saw Lorenzo at the gate?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Dark time.”
“With Victor?”
She nodded.
My blood cooled.
“What was he wearing?”
“Blue coat.”
Lorenzo owned a navy overcoat he wore constantly.
“Did your mother see him?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“She was paying at store.”
I frowned.
Zoe and Elena had walked back from the small market outside the estate.
The gate was visible from the road.
Zoe could have seen Lorenzo before Elena noticed Victor.
“What did Lorenzo do?”
She thought.
“He gave bad man something.”
“What?”
Zoe looked around.
Then picked up my silver letter opener.
Marco immediately took it away.
“Not that.”
She frowned.
“It looked like that.”
Long.
Metal.
A magazine?
A suppressor?
A knife?
Then she used both hands.
“Box.”
“How big?”
She demonstrated.
About eight inches.
My mind moved.
Could be an electronic control unit.
Remote detonator.
Access keys.
Then Zoe said:
“Yellow sticker.”
Marco looked at me.
Industrial explosives often carried yellow hazard labeling.
Maybe not.
“Did you hear them?”
“Mr. Lorenzo said…”
She concentrated.
“Friday.”
My pulse slowed again.
“What about Friday?”
“Big boom Friday.”
Silence.
Marco whispered:
“Jesus Christ.”
Zoe looked at him.
“That bad word?”
“Yes.”
She nodded solemnly.
“Doctor says worse.”
I ignored both.
“Where did Lorenzo put the box?”
“Bad man’s car.”
“What car?”
“Black.”
Useless.
Every man in my world drove black vehicles.
Then Zoe added:
“Broken light.”
Marco and I looked at each other.
Victor’s personal security SUV had a cracked right taillight from an incident two weeks earlier.
I knew because I told him to replace it.
He had not.
“Garage.”
Marco moved.
“Now.”
We found Victor’s SUV in the underground east garage.
Right taillight cracked.
No Victor.
Vehicle unlocked.
That was wrong.
Inside the rear storage compartment, beneath emergency blankets, we found a hardened plastic case.
Yellow warning label.
Marco called the bomb technician.
I stood fifty feet away holding Zoe because apparently she had followed us again.
“How are you here?”
“Nico is slow.”
Nico arrived seconds later looking like a man expecting execution.
“Boss, I—”
“Later.”
The technician opened the case remotely.
Not explosive.
Worse in another way.
Military-grade remote ignition components.
Encrypted receivers.
Vehicle trackers.
Detonator hardware.
Enough to convert explosives placed elsewhere into coordinated bombs.
The missing pieces were charges.
Where?
My scheduled convoy.
Maybe vehicles already prepared.
I turned to Marco.
“Every car assigned to Friday. Quarantine.”
“Already moving.”
“Do not start engines.”
“Understood.”
My phone rang.
Unknown.
I answered.
Victor.
His voice was calm.
“Good morning, Adrian.”
I looked at the clock.
3:18 a.m.
“Victor.”
“You found the box.”
“You left it badly hidden.”
“That was Lorenzo’s mistake.”
Interesting.
“Are you turning on him?”
Victor laughed.
“No.”
“Then why call?”
“Because your housekeeper has something that belongs to us.”
“The recording.”
“Yes.”
“You tried to kill her.”
“Not my order.”
“Whose?”
Silence.
Lorenzo.
Of course.
Victor continued.
“Give me the memory card.”
“No.”
“I’ll give you information.”
“I already have you.”
“No.”
His voice sharpened.
“You have half a betrayal.”
“What’s the other half?”
“Your New York war.”
I went still.
The Manhattan conflict.
Eleven days.
Four negotiations.
Two funerals.
We had assumed the attack came from the Bellini faction.
Victor laughed softly.
“You think Lorenzo started planning two weeks ago?”
My skin went cold.
“He planned while you were in New York.”
“Why?”
“To keep you there.”
A diversion.
Bleed manpower.
Create exhaustion.
Then kill me on return.
“Who else?”
Victor said:
“Memory card first.”
“No.”
“Then ask yourself one question.”
“What?”
“Why did Elena Williams have access to information valuable enough that we put a camera in her daughter’s toy?”
I looked toward the guest floor.
Victor continued.
“She isn’t just a housekeeper, Adrian.”
The call ended.
I stood in the garage.
Zoe held my collar.
Marco looked at me.
“What did he say?”
I looked upstairs.
Toward the woman sleeping beneath IV antibiotics.
“Elena has been hiding something.”
Zoe frowned.
“Mama doesn’t hide.”
I looked down.
Everybody hid.
May you like
The question was whether Elena had hidden from me—
or from the people trying to kill us both.
