Chapter 3 - The Silver Lighter
~1,100 words
The glowing screen of the burner phone illuminated my trembling hands.
He’s outside your building right now.
I crawled toward the small bedroom window that overlooked the fire escape and the street below. I peeked through the frayed curtains.
Parked directly beneath the flickering streetlight was a sleek, black sedan. A man in a charcoal suit was leaning against the hood, smoking a cigarette. Even from four stories up, I recognized the broad shoulders and the sharp, unyielding posture.
Marco. Dante’s security consultant.
He hadn't just found out where I lived. He was standing guard.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway outside Leo’s bedroom.
I frantically shoved the burner phone back into the pocket of Marcus’s heavy wool coat and dropped the coat exactly where I had found it. I practically dove back to Leo’s bedside, pretending to smooth his blankets.
The door pushed open.
Marcus stood in the doorway, his silhouette blocking the light from the hall.
“Is he asleep?” Marcus asked, his voice low and tight.
“Yes,” I whispered, not turning around.
“Come into the kitchen. We aren't finished talking.”
“I’m tired, Marcus.”
“Now, Mia.”
It wasn't a request.
I stood up, giving Leo one last desperate look, praying he would stay asleep. I walked past Marcus, keeping as much distance between us as the narrow doorframe allowed.
When I reached the kitchen, Marcus was standing by the sink. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy, silver Zippo lighter. He flipped the lid open and closed with a rhythmic, metallic clack.
Clack.
Clack.
I had never seen that lighter before. Marcus didn't smoke.
“Giuseppe just texted me,” Marcus said, staring at the silver lighter in his hand. “He said you made quite an impression on Mr. Castellano. But he also said Castellano’s dog followed you home.”
My heart pounded. “I don't know anything about that.”
Marcus looked up, his eyes entirely devoid of sanity. “You’re playing dumb. You think because Castellano’s guy is sitting on the street, you’re safe? You think Dante cares about you?”
“Marcus, please, you’re scaring me. What is this about? Why did you make Giuseppe assign me to that table?”
Marcus slammed the silver lighter onto the counter.
“Because I owe the Falcone family three hundred thousand dollars, Mia!” he shouted, then immediately lowered his voice, remembering Leo was in the next room. “I lost a shipping container full of electronics. The Falcones were going to kill me, and they were going to take Leo.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. The Falcone family. The only syndicate in the city violent and powerful enough to rival Dante Castellano’s empire.
“What does that have to do with Dante?” I choked out.
“Dante hates the Falcones,” Marcus said, a frantic, desperate smile twisting his lips. “And Dante Castellano destroys any man who puts his hands on a woman. It’s his fatal flaw. If I made you look like a victim, and I made sure Dante found out I worked for the Falcone syndicate... Dante wouldn't just come after me. He’d tear apart the entire Falcone operation to get to me.”
I stared at him in sheer horror.
He hadn't just used me as bait. He was trying to spark a mafia war to erase his own gambling debts. He was using Dante’s trauma over his murdered sister as a weapon.
“You’re a monster,” I whispered.
Marcus stepped forward, grabbing my jaw with a bruising grip.
“I’m a survivor,” he hissed. “And you’re going to go downstairs right now, and you’re going to tell that security guy that your husband is a violent enforcer for the Falcone family. You’re going to beg him for help.”
“No,” I cried, trying to pull away. “I won't do it! I won't let you use me!”
Marcus’s other hand shot out, grabbing a large kitchen knife from the butcher block on the counter.
He didn't point it at me.
He pointed it toward the hallway. Toward Leo’s room.
“You’ll do exactly what I tell you, Mia. Because if Castellano doesn't wipe out my debt to the Falcones by tomorrow morning, I’m not sticking around to pay it. And I’m not leaving witnesses behind.”
The room spun. My husband was threatening to kill our son.
“Okay,” I sobbed, throwing my hands up. “Okay! I’ll go. Put the knife down.”
Marcus sneered, tossing the knife onto the counter. “Go. Five minutes. If you aren't back up here, I wake the kid up.”
I turned and ran toward the front door. I didn't grab my coat. I didn't put on shoes. I bolted out into the hallway in my socks, tearing down the four flights of stairs because the elevator was too slow.
I hit the lobby doors and burst out into the freezing night air.
Marco was still leaning against the black sedan. When he saw me sprint out of the building, crying and shivering in the cold, he immediately dropped his cigarette and stepped forward.
“Mia,” Marco said, his sharp eyes scanning the shadows behind me. “What happened? Did he touch you again?”
“You have to help me,” I gasped, grabbing the lapels of his expensive charcoal suit. “My son is up there. My husband has a knife.”
Marco didn't hesitate. He didn't ask questions.
He reached into his jacket, pulling out a suppressed handgun with terrifying speed.
“What apartment number?” Marco asked, his voice completely devoid of emotion.
“4B,” I cried. “But please, don't hurt him in front of my son! You can't!”
“Stay behind me,” Marco ordered.
He moved toward the building entrance with lethal grace. I followed him, my heart hammering against my ribs.
We climbed the stairs in absolute silence. When we reached the fourth floor, the door to apartment 4B was slightly ajar.
Marco raised his weapon, gesturing for me to stay back. He kicked the door fully open and swept the room.
“Clear,” Marco whispered, stepping into the living room.
I rushed in behind him. “Marcus!”
The apartment was empty.
The kitchen counter was bare. The knife was gone. The silver lighter was gone.
I sprinted down the hallway to Leo’s room.
I threw the door open, my screams dying in my throat.
The bed was empty. The blankets were thrown on the floor. Leo’s stuffed bear lay abandoned near the closet.
“No, no, no!” I shrieked, tearing through the apartment, throwing open closet doors. “Leo! Leo!”
Marco walked into the bedroom, his gun lowered. He bent down and picked up a piece of paper resting on Leo’s pillow.
He handed it to me.
It was a crude drawing Leo had made for me earlier that evening. A drawing of me, holding his hand.
But written across the back of the drawing, in Marcus’s frantic handwriting, was a message.
“Tell Castellano he has 24 hours to burn the Falcone docks, or he can find his new charity case's son in the river.”
I collapsed onto the hardwood floor, clutching the drawing to my chest, screaming until my voice gave out.
May you like
Marco pulled his phone from his pocket, dialing a number.
“Boss,” Marco said, his eyes fixed on my broken form. “The husband took the kid. And he left you a ransom note.”
