Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Albany
By mid-morning, the blizzard had cleared, leaving a blinding, sunlit landscape of white powder three feet deep across the valley.
Inside the small kitchen, the air was warm and smelled of strong chicory coffee and toasted bread.
Roman sat propped up against the wall near the hearth, wrapped in three wool blankets. His face had regained a touch of color, though the dark circles under his eyes made him look like a man who had walked out of a grave.
Bear sat directly beside him, his massive head resting on Roman’s lap. Roman’s large, scarred hand was resting on the dog’s neck, his thumb lazily stroking the soft skin behind the mastiff’s ear.
Mara stood by the counter, buttering a slice of dry toast. She set it on a tin plate and walked over, placing it on the floor beside him along with a mug of hot coffee.
"Eat," she said.
Roman didn't touch the food. He looked at the mug, then up at her. "What's your name?"
"Mara," she answered. "Mara Whitlock."
"Mara," Roman repeated, testing the weight of the name on his tongue. "You live here alone?"
"Yes."
"No husband? No family?"
Mara’s jaw tightened. Her eyes drifted briefly to a framed photograph sitting on the mantelpiece—a picture of a tall man with a wide smile wearing a firefighter's jacket.
"My husband died four years ago," Mara said shortly. "In a fire at the paper mill. It's just me and Bear."
Roman looked at the dog, then back at Mara. "Your dog has good instincts. He knew I wasn't ready to go yet."
"Or he knew you were a fool who didn't dress for the weather," Mara retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. She pointed at the black gun sitting on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard, well out of reach. "I took your weapon. And your ring."
"Keep the gun," Roman said quietly. "It won't do you any good anyway. The men coming for me don't use pistols. They use rifles from half a mile away."
Mara sat down in the wooden chair across from him. "Who are you? And why was a man in a customized hundred-thousand-dollar wheelchair dumped off the ridge on Route 9?"
Roman took a slow sip of the scalding black coffee. He didn't answer immediately. For eleven years, his name had been spoken only in hushed, fearful tones in the backrooms of Albany's political and criminal corridors. He was Roman Falconee—the undisputed king of the East Coast underground logistics. He controlled the docks, the trucking lines, and the judges who signed the warrants.
And now, he was a man who couldn't stand up to take a leak.
"My name is Roman," he said simply. "I ran a shipping enterprise in the city. Two days ago, my second-in-command decided he wanted the enterprise for himself."
"Vincent?" Mara asked, recalling the name he had muttered in his feverish sleep.
Roman’s eyes flashed with a lethal, icy spark. "Vincent Ross. A rat I pulled out of the gutters of South Brooklyn twelve years ago. I gave him a suit. I gave him a home. I gave him power. And when a rival syndicate offered him twenty million to eliminate me... he took the money."
"Why didn't he just shoot you?" Mara asked, shuddering.
"Because shooting me leaves a bullet for the forensics team," Roman explained, his voice cold and analytical. "A paralyzed man dumping off a mountain ridge in the middle of the worst blizzard of the year? That looks like an accident. A tragic fall from a scenic lookout. By now, Vincent has already held a press conference expressing his deep sorrow for my 'untimely death.'"
Mara stared at him, the reality of her situation sinking in like a lead weight in her stomach. She wasn't just hiding a injured stranger. She was harboring a ghost—a powerful crime boss whose enemies believed he was dead.
"If they find out you're alive..." Mara whispered.
"They won't just finish the job on me," Roman said, looking her straight in the eyes. "They'll burn this house to the ground with you inside it to make sure there are no witnesses."
Before Mara could respond, Bear’s ears suddenly shot forward.
The great mastiff stood up smoothly, a low, dangerous growl beginning deep in his chest. He walked over to the front window, his hackles rising along his spine.
Mara froze. "What is it?"
Roman’s face turned stone-hard. "Get away from the window."
Mara crept over to the side of the curtain, peeking out into the snow-covered driveway.
May you like
A heavy silver snowmobile had pulled up near her mailbox at the edge of the forest road. Two men dressed in black winter tactical gear stepped off the machine. One of them carried a long, black hard-shell rifle case over his shoulder.
"It's them," Mara gasped, her breath catching in her throat. "Two men. They're looking at the snow tracks near the road!"
