Chapter 5 – THE FIRE IN THE HALLWAY

The spark from the Zippo lighter caught instantly.

The concentrated gas in the panic room ignited with a blinding, deafening WHOOSH.

It wasn’t a concussive bomb explosion, but a massive fireball that blew violently outward through the cracked vault door, seeking the oxygen in the hallway.

The screams of Silvio’s men on the other side of the door were instantaneous and horrifying.

The force of the backdraft threw Luca backward against the steel wall.

“GO!” Luca roared, his voice cracking from the heat.

I grabbed Gabriel by his jacket, tucking the tiny micro-SD card into my bra, and lunged through the smoking doorway.

The hallway was a nightmare. The fireball had incinerated the tactical vests of the men waiting outside the door. Three of them were writhing on the floor, frantically trying to put out the flames consuming their clothes. The smoke was so thick I could barely see two feet in front of me.

I didn’t stop. I pulled Gabriel through the chaos, coughing violently as the acrid smoke burned my lungs.

“Hannah!” Luca staggered out of the vault behind us, clutching his bleeding shoulder. He picked up a dropped assault rifle from one of the burning men with his good hand.

“To the kitchen!” Luca yelled. “The service elevator!”

We sprinted through the destroyed living room. The front door was completely gone, blown off its hinges, but more of Silvio’s men were pouring up the main stairwell of the brownstone, shouting orders.

Luca fired blindly into the smoke to keep their heads down, emptying the magazine in seconds.

We reached the kitchen. Hidden behind a false pantry door was a small, manual dumbwaiter service elevator meant for catering.

“Get in!” I shoved Gabriel into the small wooden box. It was barely big enough for a child and one adult.

“You go with him,” Luca ordered, tossing the empty rifle aside. He pulled a handgun from his waistband. “I’ll hold them here.”

“I am not leaving you to die!” I screamed, tears streaming down my face. I grabbed his good arm and pulled him toward the dumbwaiter.

“Hannah, it won’t hold all of us!” Luca argued, his face pale with blood loss and soot.

“It has to!”

I shoved Luca into the small space next to Gabriel. The mafia boss practically collapsed against the wooden slats, his strength completely spent. I squeezed in after them, my back pressed painfully against the brick shaft, and slammed the pantry door shut just as Silvio’s men breached the kitchen.

I grabbed the thick, greasy rope pulley and began lowering us by hand.

The muscles in my arms screamed in agony. The combined weight of Luca, Gabriel, and myself was easily over three hundred pounds. The rough rope tore the skin from my palms, leaving bloody smears on the hemp, but I didn’t stop pulling.

We descended into the pitch-black shaft in agonizing silence, the shouts of the gunmen fading above us.

When the box finally hit the basement level with a dull thud, I collapsed against the wall, gasping for air. My hands were completely raw, bleeding profusely.

“You’re insane, Hannah,” Luca whispered in the dark, a mixture of awe and exhaustion in his voice.

“I’m just the maid,” I fired back, breathing heavily. “I clean up messes.”

I kicked the basement door open.

We spilled out into the cold, damp underground parking garage of the brownstone.

Sitting in the corner, covered by a grey tarp, was Luca’s emergency escape vehicle—a heavily armored black sedan.

Luca tossed me the keys with his good hand. “You drive. I’m seeing double.”

I caught the keys, my bloody hands slipping slightly. I loaded Gabriel into the back seat and helped Luca into the passenger side.

I jumped into the driver’s seat, hit the ignition, and slammed on the gas. The armored sedan roared to life, smashing through the wooden garage doors and bursting out into the rainy alleyway.

I drove frantically for twenty minutes, winding through the back streets of the city to lose any potential tails. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off, replaced by a deep, bone-chilling terror.

I glanced over at Luca. He was passed out, his head resting against the cold glass of the window, his shirt completely soaked in blood.

“Uncle Luca?” Gabriel whispered from the back seat, terrified.

“He’s just sleeping, baby,” I lied smoothly, trying to keep my voice steady. “He’s going to be okay.”

But I knew he wasn’t. We couldn’t go to a hospital. Silvio owned half the police force and probably had men watching every emergency room in the city.

We needed a doctor who wouldn’t ask questions.

I remembered an old name my mother used to mention when I was a teenager. A disgraced surgeon who lost his license and operated a back-alley clinic in the slums of the South Side. Dr. Aris. He stitched up gang members for cash.

It was a massive risk, but I had no choice.

I navigated the dark, pothole-riddled streets of the South Side, finally pulling up to a rusted, abandoned laundromat.

“Stay here, Gabriel. Lock the doors,” I ordered.

I ran to the back alley and pounded on the heavy metal door.

A small viewing slot slid open, revealing a pair of bloodshot eyes.

“We’re closed,” a raspy voice muttered.

“I have fifty thousand dollars cash,” I lied desperately, knowing Luca’s wallet probably had enough to convince him. “Gunshot wound. He’s bleeding out.”

The slot snapped shut. A heavy deadbolt turned, and the door opened.

Dr. Aris was a gaunt man smelling heavily of cheap whiskey and bleach. He took one look at the armored car and nodded.

I dragged Luca out of the passenger seat. The mob boss groaned in agony, barely conscious, as I half-carried him inside.

Aris directed us to a filthy examination table in the back room. He cut away Luca’s ruined shirt.

“Bullet passed clean through the deltoid,” Aris muttered, grabbing a bottle of iodine. “Missed the artery by an inch. He’s lucky. But he needs stitches and blood.”

“Just fix him,” I demanded, wiping the sweat from my forehead.

I ran back out to the car to get Gabriel. The boy was shivering in the back seat. I wrapped my coat around him and brought him inside, hiding him in a corner office away from the bloody surgical table.

For two hours, I sat on the dirty linoleum floor, holding Gabriel’s hand while Aris worked. The smell of copper and rubbing alcohol was nauseating.

Finally, Aris walked out, wiping his bloody hands on a towel.

“He’ll live,” Aris said bluntly. “He’s out cold from the morphine. Needs to rest for at least twelve hours.”

I let out a breath I felt like I had been holding for years. I reached into Luca’s jacket pocket, pulled out a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills, and handed it to the doctor.

“Not a word of this to anyone,” I warned, channeling every ounce of mafia intimidation I had witnessed over three years.

Aris smirked, pocketing the cash. “I don’t know who you are, lady. And I don’t care.”

I went into the back room. Luca was sleeping peacefully on the table, his shoulder heavily bandaged. He looked so vulnerable. The terrifying Don of the Moretti family, reduced to a patient in a slum clinic.

I sat in a plastic chair beside him, resting my head against the edge of the table. Exhaustion finally overtook me, and I drifted into a restless sleep.

I don’t know how much time passed before a cold, metallic click jolted me awake.

I opened my eyes.

The clinic was dead silent. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly.

Standing over me, pressing the barrel of a suppressed pistol directly against my forehead, was a woman in a fitted red dress.

Vanessa Bellini.

Her dress was ruined, her makeup smeared, and her eyes were manic, filled with a desperate, wild terror.

“Hello, Hannah,” Vanessa whispered, her finger trembling on the trigger. “Give me the microchip, or I blow your brains out right next to him.”