Chapter 3 - Whispers in the Wall
That night, the rain turned into a downpour that lashed against the reinforced glass windows of the forty-second floor.
Lena sat in her small service room, applying a cold compress to her throbbing forehead. The encounter in the foyer had drained the last reserves of her energy.
She opened her notebook and looked at the numbers:
St. Jude Rehabilitation Facility (Danny): $2,400.00.
She had six hundred dollars in her checking account. Her next paycheck was due in three days. If Marco fired her before Friday, Danny would be discharged from his physical therapy program before he learned to walk again.
"Just three more months," she whispered, touching the paper. "Just let me stay three more months."
At 11:30 PM, her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
She picked it up instantly. "Danny?"
"Hey, Sis," her brother’s raspy voice came through the speaker, accompanied by the faint squeak of his wheelchair wheels in the background. "Did I wake you?"
"No," Lena said, her tone instantly warming, softening into something human. "I'm awake. How was the afternoon session?"
"Brutal," Danny chuckled faintly, though she could hear the bone-deep fatigue in his breath. "The therapist made me do ten yards on the parallel bars today. My legs felt like jelly, but... Lena, I moved my left foot. Really moved it. Not a spasm."
Tears welled up in Lena’s eyes, hot and sudden. She pressed her hand against her mouth to keep her breath from hitching.
"That's incredible, Danny," she whispered. "That's... oh, Danny, that's amazing."
"She says if I keep this up, I might be able to use crutches by Christmas," Danny said softly. "Are you okay, Lena? You sound... far away."
"I'm fine," she lied smoothly, wiping her eye with the back of her sleeve. "Just tired. The work is heavy here."
"Don't kill yourself for those rich people, Lena," Danny warned gently. "I know how much this costs. I know what you gave up—"
"I gave up nothing," Lena cut in fiercely. "You are going to walk, Danny. That's the only thing that matters in this world. Do you hear me?"
They talked for ten more minutes until Danny’s voice grew heavy with sleep. After hanging up, Lena sat on her narrow cot, staring at the concrete wall.
She stood up, needing a glass of water from the staff pantry.
The hallway outside the quarters was dark, lit only by low-level emergency floor lights. As she walked past the recessed alcove where the service water line was piped, she heard the muffled sound of low, heavy voices coming through the drywall from the adjoining sitting room.
It was Caruso and one of the senior field lieutenants, Frank.
"...Vasquez didn't hit the warehouse for the cargo," Frank was saying, his voice thick with tension. "It was a diversion. He pulled thirty of our guys out to the Indiana border to clear the road."
"Are you sure?" Caruso asked sharply.
"Our informant inside his crew confirmed it an hour ago," Frank whispered. "Vasquez knows he can't win a war of attrition against Marco on the streets. Marco’s money is too long, his legal political connections are too deep. Vasquez is going for the root."
A long pause filled the air wall.
"Isabella," Caruso spat out softly.
"Yeah," Frank grunted. "He knows if he takes out Marco, Marco’s captains will tear the city apart in revenge. But if he takes out the Old Lady... Marco will lose his mind. He’ll make mistakes. He’ll come out into the open, sloppy and wild, trying to execute everyone in sight. And that’s when Vasquez drops the net on him."
"Does the Boss know?"
"Marco knows Vasquez is moving, but he thinks it's a land grab," Frank replied. "He’s planning to move his mother to the heavily fortified estate in Geneva tomorrow night under heavy guard."
"Good," Caruso said. "The estate is a bunker. Once she’s behind those perimeter walls, Vasquez can’t touch her."
Lena stood frozen in the dark service corridor, her hand resting against the cold plastic of the water dispenser.
The Vasquez syndicate was not planning a corporate takeover or a turf war. They were planning an execution. And Isabella DeLuca—the frail, stubborn old woman who complained about her nebulizer and missed her late husband—was the target.
May you like
Lena turned around slowly and walked back to her room.
She lay on her bed until dawn, watching the rain streak down her small reinforced window, knowing that the thin line between her brother’s future and total ruin was about to be torn apart by men who killed for sport.
