Chapter 3 - The Ghost of New York
The splintering crash of the front door echoed through the high-vaulted ceilings of the marble foyer, sending a shockwave of terror straight up to the master bedroom.
I pressed my back against the cold concrete wall of the basement, my breathing shallow, my eyes fixed on the reinforced door at the top of the stairs.
Upstairs, chaos had erupted.
“Who are you? What are you doing in my house?!” Barrett’s voice cracked, a mixture of upper-class indignation and rising, whimpering panic. “I’m calling the police! This is Greenwich! You can't just—!”
A dull, wet thud echoed through the floorboards—the sound of Barrett being slammed against the hallway wall with enough force to knock the wind out of him.
“You called my daughter nothing,” a voice replied.
It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It was a voice that had ended business partnerships, silenced informants, and commanded the docks of New York Harbor for thirty years without ever raising its pitch. It was cold, flat, and absolute.
Dominic Romano had entered the house.
“W-who are you?!” Taryn shrieked from the master bedroom, her voice high and frantic. I could imagine her standing there wrapped in my silk robe, realizing that her little game of suburban adultery had just collided with something ancient and lethal.
“Get away from her!” Barrett stammered. “I demand you leave this property right now! Do you know who my family is? My father sits on the town council—!”
Crack.
The sound of an open-handed slap across Barrett’s face rang out like a pistol shot.
“Your father is a minor real estate speculator in a town I bought out during the Carter administration,” Dominic said smoothly. “Where is my daughter?”
Silence hung in the upper hallway for three agonizing seconds.
“I—I don't know what you’re talking about!” Barrett lied, his voice trembling violently. “There’s no one here named—!”
“Rocco,” Dominic said softly.
“Boss?” a deep rumble answered from nearby.
“Check the house. If she has a scratch on her, take the furniture out through the windows and burn the house around them.”
“Right away, Mr. Romano.”
Heavy, purposeful footsteps began marching across the second-floor landing. Doors opened and slammed shut. I heard Taryn let out a terrified scream as someone forced their way into the guest suite where she had tried to hide.
Then came the heavy tread of boots descending the back stairs toward the basement door.
My heart hammered against my ribs, sending fresh waves of nausea through my stomach. The deadbolt rattled. The heavy steel key slid into the lock with a sharp clack.
The door swung open, casting a harsh wedge of hallway light down the concrete steps.
Framed in the doorway stood Rocco—a mountain of a man with a scarred eyebrow and a custom-tailored suit that barely contained his shoulders. He looked down into the dark basement, his eyes adjusting to the gloom until they locked onto me huddled against the wall.
Rocco’s expression didn't change, but his breath hitched. He turned his head back up the stairs.
“Boss,” Rocco bellowed, his voice thick with suppressed fury. “She’s down here. And she can barely stand.”
A shadow fell across the doorway as my father stepped up beside Rocco and looked down into the basement.
For the first time in ten years, I looked into the eyes of Dominic Romano.
May you like
He didn't smile. He didn't offer a gentle greeting. But as he looked at my bruised face, my torn dress, and the awkward way I was holding my side, the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
“Bring her up,” Dominic said quietly. “And bring the husband.”
