Chapter 9 - The Ghost of Bellamy Wash
The rain beat a relentless tattoo against the reinforced glass of the penthouse, but inside, the air was warm, smelling faintly of lavender and old paper.
Norah sat at the edge of the large marble kitchen island, turning a silver quarter between her fingers. Even with the security detail doubled, the private elevators locked down, and Dante sleeping lightly with a loaded Beretta beneath his pillow, the phantom of Bellamy Wash still lingered at the back of her mind.
A soft click echoed down the hallway.
Footsteps—light, deliberate, and entirely lacking the heavy thud of the syndicate’s enforcers—approached the kitchen.
Norah didn't reach for a weapon. She didn't have to.
“You’re up late, Elena,” Norah said without turning around.
A woman stepped into the dim light of the kitchen. Elena Vance—Dante’s younger sister, who had spent the last six months hiding in a Swiss safehouse under strict diplomatic protection—leaned against the doorway. She had Dante’s striking pale eyes, but her expression lacked the sharp, predatory edge that defined her brother. Instead, she looked exhausted, carrying the heavy grief of a family torn apart by blood and bullets.
“I heard the tea kettle,” Elena said softly, stepping up to the counter and pouring herself a cup. She looked at Norah with an intense, analytical curiosity. “For six months, my brother has turned this penthouse into a fortress wrapped around a domestic fantasy. And you’re the centerpiece.”
Norah set the quarter down. “I’m not a centerpiece, Elena. I’m just trying to keep your niece from having nightmares.”
“My brother doesn't do normal, Norah,” Elena warned, her voice dropping into a grave whisper. “Dante built this empire on the bodies of men who betrayed him. Viktor Petrov was just a branch of a much larger tree. The Syndicate Council in Zurich... they watched Viktor fall. And they aren't going to let a former laundry worker rewrite the rules of New York’s underworld without a price.”
Before Norah could reply, the penthouse lights flickered once, twice, and then died completely.
The smart-glass windows, usually glowing with the neon pulse of the Manhattan skyline, turned pitch black.
Down the hall, Chloe let out a sudden, sharp cry of fright.
May you like
“Stay here,” Elena hissed, her hand instinctively sliding beneath her silk jacket to draw a compact Walther PPK.
“No,” Norah said, her voice cutting through the rising tension with absolute authority. “That’s my daughter’s room.”
