Chapter 1 - The Ash beneath the StairwellThe cold, sterile air of St. Matthew Medical Center stung my lungs like crushed glass. Surrounding me in the dimly lit corridor were four armed men in charcoal suits, but none of them could shield me from the sudden, catastrophic silence inside my own chest.
I stared at my satellite screen, my thumb trembling as I opened the attached video file sent by my head of private security, Lieutenant Colonel Marcus Vance.
The grainy 4K surveillance footage from the rear stairwell of Elena’s apartment building froze my blood to solid ice.
Timestamp: 9:18 P.M.
The camera caught the side profile of my thirty-two-year-old ex-wife, Elena Brooks. She was dressed in a thick navy wool coat, her long dark hair pulled back in a loose clip, her hands cradling her small, barely noticeable bump beneath her coat.
Standing three steps above her, clutching an oversized leather folder, was a woman wearing an expensive mink wrap and diamond earrings.
My younger sister, Ava Marchetti.
My breath hitched. The world seemed to tilt on its axis.
On the screen, Ava was screaming at Elena, her face twisted in a manic, ugly rage. Elena took two terrified steps backward, her hand reaching frantically for the cold iron handrail. Then, as Elena turned to flee down the steps, Ava reached out with both hands and violently shoved her down the concrete flight.
Elena’s body tumbled awkwardly down twelve stone steps, her head striking the iron banister before she landed motionless at the bottom, her blood pooling slowly onto the cold grey concrete.
Ava didn't call an ambulance. She didn't check for a pulse. She casually looked up at the security lens, pulled her mink coat tighter around her shoulders, and walked away into the snowing night.
My fists clenched flat against my sides until the leather of my gloves creaked under immense pressure.
"Nico...?"
The soft, manipulative voice echoed from the end of the hospital hallway.
Walking toward me, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief, looking every bit the grieving, worried sister, was Ava Marchetti.
"Nico, darling, I came as fast as I could!" Ava whimpered, her voice dropping into a frantic, high-pitched thread. "The guards told me she fell! Oh God, Nico, is the baby really yours?! What was she even doing living in that trashy apartment building alone?!"
I slowly turned my six-foot-four frame toward my sister.
At thirty-nine, as the Don of the Marchetti Syndicate, men in corporate boardrooms and street corners lowered their eyes when I entered a room. They knew my rage was an iron blade. But right now, my storm-gray eyes were terrifyingly, completely dead.
"Marcus," I spoke flatly. My baritone was not a roar; it was a subsonic whisper that dropped the corridor's ambient temperature to absolute zero.
"Boss?" Lieutenant Colonel Marcus Vance stepped out from the shadows, his sidearm unholstered at his leg.
"Take her to the lower command suite at the Marchetti Tower," I ordered, my eyes never leaving Ava's pale, freezing face. "Lock down every exit. No phone calls. No attorneys."
Ava’s eyes widened in total, catatonic terror as two broad-shouldered Vance Security operators stepped forward, clamping heavy steel handcuffs around her manicured wrists.
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"NICO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" Ava shrieked, thrashing wildly against the guards. "I'M YOUR SISTER! YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME OVER A DIVORCED WOMAN!"
"You didn't just push a divorced woman, Ava," I corrected deadpan, stepping right into her space, my broad chest blocking out the hallway lights. "You tried to murder the Donna of the Marchetti Syndicate... and my unborn child."
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