Chapter 3 - SHATTERED GLASS AND BROKEN ALLIANCES
The penthouse above Portia was a fortress of glass, steel, and silence. Renzo bypassed his private elevator and carried Delphine up the last flight of stairs himself when her legs finally gave way entirely. He laid her on a velvet sofa that cost more than her husband had made in three years. He summoned his private physician, a man who asked no questions and treated gunshot wounds and broken bones with equal discretion.
While the doctor hooked an IV of fluids and vitamins into Delphine’s frail, bruised arm, Renzo stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the rain-slicked docks. The city was his, yet he had never felt smaller.
"She’s severely malnourished, Mr. Castellane," the doctor murmured, packing his leather bag. "The baby is holding on, but it’s a near thing. Stress, lack of food... she needs rest and a stable environment, or you’ll be burying them both."
When the doctor left, Renzo poured himself three fingers of scotch and sat in the leather armchair opposite the sofa. Delphine was awake, staring at the ceiling, the diamond-studded Rolex on her borrowed wrist looking absurd against her scarred skin.
"What is your name?" Renzo asked quietly.
"Delphine," she rasped. "Delphine Ashcraft."
Renzo froze. The glass in his hand halted halfway to his mouth. Ashcraft.
"Your husband," Renzo said, the syllables tasting like ash in his mouth. "He was a welder. Quincy Shipyard."
Delphine turned her head, her eyes narrowing with sudden, sharp suspicion. "How do you know that? Nobody knows that. The company erased him. They said he was at fault. They said the fire was his mistake."
Renzo set the glass down because his hands had begun to tremble. He remembered the paperwork. Six months ago, a minor subsidiary of his holding company, managed entirely by Arthur von MarQuetti’s legal firm, had experienced a catastrophic fire. One fatality. Arthur had sat in this exact room and advised Renzo to deny the widow’s pension claim, citing negligence on the welder's part to protect their insurance premiums ahead of the massive waterfront merger. Renzo, distracted by a gang war in the South End, had signed the denial without looking at the name.
He had starved her. He had put her in that broken Buick. He had driven her into his own kitchen to scrub his dishes at four in the morning for scraps.
"I know," Renzo said, his voice cracking, the polished veneer of the mafia boss shattering into a million jagged pieces, "because I own the shipyard, Delphine. I signed the paper."
He waited for the screaming. He waited for her to throw the lamp at him, to curse him, to demand his blood. Instead, Delphine just looked at him, a profound, crushing exhaustion settling over her delicate features.
"Of course you do," she whispered, turning her face to the back of the sofa. "The monster is never hiding under the bed. He's always the one offering you a ride."
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The quiet resignation in her voice hurt worse than a bullet. Renzo stood up, walked to his heavy mahogany desk, and unlocked the bottom drawer. He pulled out the black ledger—the book that held every sin, every bribe, every dirty contract the von MarQuetti family had tied him to.
"I took everything from you," Renzo said to her back. "But I swear to you on my mother's grave, Delphine... I am going to burn their world to the ground to give it back."
