Chapter 2 #3
Lines of code crawl across my secondary screen, each one a lifeline: heart rate, oxygen saturation, neural response.
I’ve patched into the hospital’s private network through a satellite bounce off Reykjavik, because the UK’s firewalls are laughable if you know where to dig.
The doctors are too fucking terrified to tell the Salvatores that one of their own is hanging by a thread.
They, probably rightly, fear the wrath of the Cosa Nostra.
Cesare’s been pacing for hours.
The rest keep glancing at the monitors like they can intimidate them into behaving. They don’t know I’m watching everything. They never do.
At the start of my fascination with them, I told myself I was doing it for the data, for possible leverage down the line, because nothing sells better than a juicy secret, right?
But that’s a lie.
I’m fascinated. By this family. By their story. By the unhinged carnage permanently waiting in the wings to unravel. By how so many catastrophes hinge on a name.
Two families, bloodily, fatally and inextricably intertwined. Morbidly fascinated with one another. They’re the epitome of the tired cliché of love and hate being two sides of the same coin.
On the monitor I watch his lips move. I don’t even need my special lip-reading programme to translate the silent words.
Giada Mancinelli.
At this point, I’m convinced she’s the only thing connecting him to life.
He whispers her name repeatedly, voice raw, and I feel the barest hint of something sharp and searing twist deep in my chest.
Interesting.
My fingers hover above the keyboard as a dozen possible responses queue in my mind.
Alert Rafa.
Scrub the feed, shut it all down, resist the urge to pull this particular thread.
But even as the thought hits, I pull up another window, my fingers flying.
I’ve played puppet master for too long, fingered too many pies, to turn back now.
Some would call it interference.
I call it correction.
The world is full of men who believe they’re untouchable: dons, politicians, CEOs, each convinced the rules don’t apply to them.
I just happen to be the ghost in their machines, the invisible accountant making sure debts are paid.
A few keystrokes and empires fall, accounts vanish, entire bloodlines are stripped bare of the power they stole.
Not for justice. Never justice. For balance.
Over the years, I’ve crashed bank servers for fun, exposed corrupt judges for sport, and delivered more secrets to both sides of a war than either realise. But the Salvatores… they’re different.
They’re my favourite equation, chaos dressed in couture. I didn’t plan to become their unseen hand, but every time I meddle, the world sharpens. Patterns align. The numbers hum the way they should.
I don’t interfere.
I curate.
* * *
I’m pondering my next move when the screen beside his bed flashes red and Renzo’s vitals spike again, then drops.
Nurses rush in, blocking the camera view.
Cesare’s mouth moves and my green code captures the movements and translate.
He’s praying and cursing and praying.
They grow from a whisper to a roar when the flat line echoes through the hospital speakers.
No.
I lean closer, pulse hammering, ignoring the sweat collecting on my upper lip. Come on, you reckless bastard. Breathe. We’re not done tussling yet.
Another second. Then another.
A blip. Two.
He’s alive. Barely.
I close my eyes and let out a long, unsteady breath.
Ten minutes later, after the doctors wheel him away to place him in his second induced coma, I sit back in my seat, my fingers steepled against my lips.
That was close.
Too fucking close.
I have the solution. The last card. I hadn’t wanted to play it just yet.
But… needs must, apparently.
I drag the cursor to the top of the screen, type a new command into the encrypted server. The system blinks once, then green-lights the operation.
Nightowl
Airlift to Italy. Standby for logistics.
I watch Cesare’s phone activate and my message appear. He immediately frowns.
Cesare
Airlift? What the fuck for? He has a severe concussion. Enough to be put in an enforced coma.
Nightowl
ECMO-capable med team on the jet, portable vent, pressor drips, inline monitors. Flight plan filed under diplomatic cover. Ground ambulance door-to-door. Customs pre-clearance already greased. Wheels up in ninety.
The typing dots stall. Then:
Cesare
You still didn’t answer me. Why the fuck should I jeopardise my brother’s life for some faceless schmuck hiding behind a screen?
I don’t answer.
Cesare paces the private waiting room, jacket off, sleeves shoved up and his jaw grinding. He stops where Renzo’s empty bed was, stares where the screen that bleeped with his life is now blank, and I watch a shiver course through him.
Then he glances down at his phone and I watch his chest rise. And fall.
Cesare
Where will you take him?
Nightowl
Istituto San Cristoforo, Modena.
Cesare curses under his breath and starts to prowl, cutting tight, precise laps like a caged panther.
Cesare
Is it worth me asking why there?
When I don’t answer he swears again, invoking a string of saints and devils. Then resumes pacing.
Fucking idiot.
Nightowl
Pacing won’t help. Do you want him to live?
He freezes. Mercurial-grey Salvatore eyes sweep the corners, the vent grilles, lingers on the smoke detector. Smart boy. He turns his head and says it out loud, voice low and lethal. ‘Can you hear me too, you fucker?’
My keys click.
Nightowl
Yes.
Louder, still with his eyes on the smoke alarm, he speaks. ‘Then listen closely. He dies, there’s nowhere you can hide that I won’t find you, motherfucker. You hear me?’
I let him have the silence for one heartbeat. Two. Then I tap.
Nightowl
Save the theatre for funerals. You’ll have fewer if you follow directions. Get. Fucking. Moving. And Cesare… if I wanted him dead, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.
Rage mottles his face as his hand clenches his phone tight, knuckles white. But after a moment, he calms down enough to function. Good.
Cesare exhales like he’s swallowing fire, then pivots towards the door, every inch the underboss stepping into his war.
‘Doctor!’ His voice rips through the corridor like a commandment.
‘We’re transferring Renzo, now. I want an ECMO-ready team, full transport kit, intubation secured, pressors titrated, all lines taped and labelled.
Get admin on the phone and clear the transfer; anyone who slows this down answers to me. ’
He jabs a finger towards the nurses’ station. ‘Call operations. There’s an air ambulance incoming. We’re wheels up in ten.’ He unfurls his sleeves and slides in his cuffs, a blade being sheathed.
Then glances around the startled, frozen faces.
‘I. Said. Move!’
* * *
One last thing.
Putting this genie back in the bottle might be a problem for most. Not for me. At the very least, it might prove a worthy challenge.
As doctors and nurses scramble to relocate Renzo Mancinelli, I pull the keyboard closer.
New Instruction: Asset Retrieval.
Location: Santa Maria delle Nevi, Sicilian Alps.
Status: Protected. Hidden. Undisturbed.
Undisturbed. The word makes a single pulse of electricity zip through my system.
Because I have a feeling that status won’t remain that way for very long.