Chapter 4 - The House in the Woods
The rain had tapered off to a cold, steady drizzle by the time the suburban crawled down the overgrown dirt road past the broken white gate.
The headlights carved a tunnel through the dense, dripping canopy of oak and pine trees. The forest here was ancient, choked with briars and silent save for the dripping of water from the branches above.
In the back seat, Nova and Luna were wrapped in wool blankets, sleeping soundly against each other, exhausted by the trauma of the past twenty-four hours. Marcus drove with one hand on the wheel and a submachine gun resting safely in his lap, his eyes darting between the rearview mirror and the dark tree line.
“This is it,” Logan said quietly, leaning forward from the passenger seat.
Through the trees, a small, two-story stone cottage appeared, half-swallowed by ivy and shadow. A single rusted oil drum sat by the side porch. The windows were dark, but the front door hung slightly ajar, swinging lazily in the damp wind.
Logan signaled for Marcus to cut the engine.
The suburban rolled to a silent stop fifty yards from the porch.
“Stay with the girls,” Logan ordered, stepping out into the wet mud.
“Boss, let me clear it,” Marcus urged, opening his door.
“No,” Logan said coldly. “This is mine.”
He moved with the silent, fluid grace of a predator. His boots made no sound on the wet leaves as he approached the porch. He drew his Sig Sauer, flicked off the safety, and kicked the front door open in one fluid motion.
The interior of the cottage was dusty, smelling of cold hearth ash and abandoned life.
Flashlight beam sweeping across the room, Logan inspected the space. A small wooden table with three chairs. A child’s drawing tacked to the wall—a crayon sketch of two girls holding hands with a woman who had Elena’s eyes. A bookshelf filled with tattered fairy tales and old seed catalogs.
He walked up the narrow wooden staircase to the second floor.
The floorboards groaned beneath his weight. At the top of the stairs, the landing was narrow, flanked by two small bedroom doors.
And right there, near the edge of the top step, a faint, dark stain discolored the old pine boards.
Logan knelt down, touching the stain with his gloved fingertip. He rubbed it gently, then lifted his hand to his nose.
Iron.
Old blood.
This was where she had fallen. Or rather, where she had been pushed.
Vincent had come here ten months ago, argued with her at the top of these very stairs, and ended her life because she was a loose end in his grand design for the Marchetti empire. He had left her broken body at the bottom of the stairs, told the local cronies to bury her in an unmarked plot deep in the woods, and assumed the secret was safe forever.
He didn't count on seven-year-old twin girls remembering her stories. He didn't count on them walking twelve miles through the Hudson Valley rain to find their uncle.
Logan stood up slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs like a war drum.
He walked into Elena’s small bedroom. The bed was unmade, a quilt draped over the footboard. On the dresser sat a small wooden jewelry box. Logan opened it. Inside lay a single silver locket. He clicked it open with his thumb.
Inside was a miniature photograph of a young Logan and Elena laughing in the garden of Greystone Manor, long before the blood, long before the mobs, long before the lies.
Logan closed the locket, slipped it into his breast pocket over his heart, and turned around.
May you like
It was time to go home.
And it was time to invite Uncle Vincent over for a family reunion.
