Chapter 4 - Awakening the Dragon
In the quiet, nondescript safe house in Ridgewood, Queens, the afternoon sun filtered through dust-caked Venetian blinds, casting pale stripes across the wooden floor.
Lorenzo DeLuca sat up slowly against the propped pillows, his broad shoulders wrapped in clean white bandages. Every breath sent a dull, burning ache radiating outward from his collarbone, but his eyes were clear, sharp, and entirely focused.
Dr. Elias Reed stood beside the bed, checking the digital readout of a heart monitor he had wired into the room’s battery backup system.
“You’re healing like an animal, Lorenzo,” the doctor muttered, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. “Another man would be in a coma for a week with that kind of blood loss. But your resting pulse is already back to normal.”
“Adrenaline is a poor substitute for sleep, Elias,” Lorenzo’s voice was a low, gravelly rasp, like stones sliding over one another. He looked around the Spartan room. “Where is Marcus?”
“Securing the perimeter,” the door opened quietly as Marcus Bell stepped inside, carrying a steaming cup of black coffee and a secure tactical tablet. “And before you ask, the house in Long Island is still operating under the assumption that you’re at the bottom of the Atlantic.”
Lorenzo accepted the coffee, taking a slow sip without flinching. His dark, storm-grey eyes fixed on Marcus. “Vincent?”
“He’s playing his hand,” Marcus said, pulling a folding chair up to the bedside and sitting down heavily. “He called a summit of the regional captains for six o’clock tonight at the warehouse in Greenpoint. Word on the street is he’s going to announce your ‘untimely demise’ and formally take over the syndicate operations.”
“And our people?”
“Half of them believe Vincent because they think you were sloppy,” Marcus said grimly. “The other half are waiting to see if a body turns up before they pick a side. Loyalty in our business is a currency, Lorenzo. And right now, Vincent is spending yours like water.”
Lorenzo was silent for a long moment. He set the coffee cup down on the nightstand, his fingers brushing against a small, plastic object resting beside it.
He picked it up.
It was the broken half of a pink preschool scissor blade.
A faint, ghost of a smile touched the corner of Lorenzo’s scarred mouth. “Where is she?”
“Sophia and the little one?” Marcus asked, a softer tone entering his rugged voice. “They’re in the back apartment. Sophia’s holding it together remarkably well, considering. The kid hasn't left her side except to feed that mangy calico cat she smuggled out of your mansion in her doll carrier.”
“She saved my life,” Lorenzo said quietly, his voice carrying an absolute, unbreakable weight. “If Emma hadn't chased that cat down those stairs... if she hadn't tried to cut those ties with her toy scissors... Vincent would have finished the job before nightfall.”
“She’s a remarkable little girl,” Marcus agreed. “And her mother isn't ordinary either. Sophia didn't call Vincent when she found you. She knew.”
“Instinct,” Lorenzo murmured, staring at the plastic blade in his calloused palm. “A mother knows when a viper is in the house.”
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the sharp spike of pain in his shoulder as Dr. Reed let out an exasperated sigh.
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“Where do you think you’re going?” the doctor demanded. “You had a bullet removed from your chest forty-eight hours ago!”
“I’m going to my desk, Elias,” Lorenzo said, standing up and towering over the older physician with an aura of raw, terrifying authority that filled the small room. “It’s time to show my old friend Vincent just how much I missed him.”
