Chapter 2 - The Command Center
Across the city, four miles away in a soundproofed glass office overlooking the industrial shipping yards of the Port of New Orleans, another man was not laughing.
Roman Costa sat in the rear of an armored black SUV, his phone pressed to his ear, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles along his temples twitched. In the front seats, two towering men in charcoal suits held their breath, carefully avoiding making any sound that might draw their boss's attention.
“My mother is seventy-one,” Roman said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low whisper that carried more weight than a scream. “She is legally blind. She takes daily medication for an irregular heartbeat.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“And three armed men let her walk out of a guarded estate in broad daylight.”
The head of security in the front passenger seat swallowed hard, sweat glinting on his neck despite the vehicle's air conditioning. “Mr. Costa, she used the service elevator near the kitchen. She told the guard on the gate that you had authorized a vehicle to take her to church—”
“She tricked you,” Roman interrupted, his tone icy. “She is seventy-one and blind, and she outsmarted three men I pay six figures a year to secure my family.”
“We’re searching every block within a two-mile radius of the estate—”
“Search wider,” Roman commanded.
Roman’s chest burned with a familiar, suffocating panic. Clara’s memory had begun slipping over the past year. It started with minor things—misplacing keys, forgetting dates, repeating stories she had told an hour prior. Then came the confusion with names. Sometimes she looked at Roman and saw his father, a man who had been buried in a marble mausoleum six years ago. But no matter how fractured her memory became, she never forgot how much she hated the armed guards Roman posted outside her bedroom door. She hated the golden cage he had built to keep her safe from his enemies.
Suddenly, the dashboard radio crackled to life with static.
“Unit Four to Command. We have her.”
Roman’s head snapped up instantly. “Location?”
“Fifth and Alder. The Brass Kettle diner. She’s inside.”
“Is she hurt? Is she alone?”
“She appears uninjured, sir. She is sitting in a corner booth.”
“Block the streets,” Roman ordered, slamming his hand against the leather backrest. “I’m five minutes away.”
The SUV tore through the red lights, tires screaming against the wet pavement as it wove through traffic toward Fifth and Alder.
When the heavy vehicle pulled up to the curb outside the illuminated glass windows of the Brass Kettle, Roman expected chaos. He expected his mother to be panicked, surrounded by frightened patrons, or cornered by opportunistic criminals who recognized her expensive clothing.
Instead, through the rain-streaked window, he saw his mother sitting comfortably in a battered red vinyl booth.
Sitting across from her was a young, exhausted waitress in a wet, stained gray uniform.
Rebecca was talking to Clara normally. Not slowly. Not loudly, as people so often did with the elderly or infirm. Not like she was helpless or broken. She was leaning across the Formica table, pointing toward a plastic menu, her expression animated. Clara was arguing back, shaking her head with a genuine, bright smile on her face.
Roman froze on the sidewalk, rain soaking into his black wool coat.
His chief security officer stepped up beside him, hand resting near his concealed holster. “Boss? Should we clear the building?”
Roman kept watching through the glass. He saw Rebecca casually reach across the table with a wet paper napkin and wipe a fleck of dried mud from Clara’s coat sleeve.
His mother allowed it. She didn't pull away. She didn't snap. She sat there, drinking cheap tea from a chipped mug, trusting a stranger.
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That alone was extraordinary.
“No one goes in,” Roman said, his voice dropping. “Wait by the cars. I’ll get her myself.”
