Chapter 2 - The Wrong Men Came First
Harper ran.
She didn't think.
She didn't scream.
She turned and ran toward the only place still open—a twenty-four-hour pharmacy at the next intersection.
Behind her, shoes struck pavement.
“Harper!”
She ran harder.
A car horn blasted as she crossed against the light.
She nearly slipped on the wet pavement but caught herself against a parked truck.
The pharmacy doors opened automatically.
Harper stumbled inside.
“Call the police,” she told the cashier.
The cashier stared.
“What?”
“Please.”
Harper turned.
The man from the SUV had stopped outside.
He didn't enter.
He simply watched through the glass.
Then he lifted two fingers to his temple.
A small salute.
The SUV drove away.
Harper's hands shook as she pulled Damian's card from her pocket.
She called.
He answered immediately.
“Harper?”
“How do you know it's me?”
“I saved your number.”
“There was a man outside my work.”
Silence.
“He said you sent him.”
“What did he look like?”
Harper described him.
Damian interrupted.
“Where are you?”
“Pharmacy on Tremont.”
“Stay inside.”
“He had the same bracelet.”
Damian's voice changed.
“Do not leave that building.”
The line disconnected.
Twenty minutes later, Damian arrived with two men.
This time he walked rather than ran.
That somehow made him more intimidating.
The pharmacy cashier stared openly.
Damian ignored him.
“Show me where.”
Harper pointed through the window.
“He was parked there.”
“Did he touch you?”
“No.”
“Threaten you?”
“Not directly.”
“What exactly did he say?”
She repeated it.
Damian's jaw tightened.
“You didn't send him.”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
“I intend to find out.”
Harper stepped closer.
“How's Ethan?”
That question seemed to surprise him.
“He's conscious.”
“Can he walk?”
“Not yet.”
Her face fell.
“The doctors think whatever happened may be temporary.”
“Whatever happened?”
Damian glanced at his men.
Then back at Harper.
“They found a sedative in his blood.”
Harper felt cold despite the pharmacy heat.
“Someone drugged him?”
“Possibly.”
“And the bracelet?”
“Not jewelry.”
“What is it?”
“A marker.”
“For what?”
Damian hesitated.
“The less you know, the safer you are.”
Harper laughed once.
“Somebody followed me from work. I think we're past that.”
He couldn't argue.
Damian dismissed his men with a glance.
They moved several feet away.
“R.M.C. was an old internal designation used by people connected to my father.”
“What does it stand for?”
“Red Market Circle.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“It was.”
“Was?”
“My father died nine years ago. I shut down everything associated with it.”
Harper studied him.
“What exactly was everything?”
“Businesses that shouldn't have existed.”
That was carefully phrased.
Harper understood.
“You're mafia.”
Damian looked at her.
“That's not a word I use.”
“That's definitely not a no.”
“No.”
Harper's stomach dropped.
She should have been frightened.
She was.
But another emotion pushed through it.
Anger.
“Your son was drugged because of whatever your family does?”
“I don't know.”
“Then find out.”
Damian's eyebrows lifted.
Harper realized she had just ordered a mafia boss to solve his own family crisis.
She didn't care.
“He's nineteen,” she said. “He looked terrified.”
Damian's face hardened.
“I know.”
He arranged for one of his security people to drive Harper home.
She refused twice.
After seeing another dark vehicle pass the pharmacy, she accepted.
Her apartment was on the third floor of an aging building in Dorchester.
Damian came with her.
“You don't have to walk me upstairs.”
“Yes, I do.”
“My neighbors are going to think I'm being arrested.”
“Do I look like a police officer?”
“You look considerably worse.”
For the first time, Damian smiled.
It vanished quickly.
At Harper's apartment door, he noticed the eviction warning taped beside the frame.
She ripped it down.
“Don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you're calculating how poor I am.”
“I wasn't.”
“Good.”
She unlocked the door.
“Harper.”
She turned.
Damian held out an envelope.
She stared.
“No.”
“You haven't opened it.”
“It's money.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“You lost hours tonight because of my family.”
“I helped somebody who needed help.”
“Take it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because then it becomes a transaction.”
Damian lowered the envelope.
Harper continued.
“Your son doesn't need to wake up tomorrow thinking the woman who stayed with him did it because his father paid her.”
Damian said nothing.
“Tell Ethan I hope he gets better.”
She went inside.
The following morning, Harper woke to fourteen missed calls.
Three from Lou.
Two unknown.
Nine from a hospital number.
She called the hospital.
A nurse answered.
“Massachusetts General.”
Harper sat upright.
“Someone called me?”
“Harper Lane?”
“Yes.”
“One moment.”
Another voice came on.
Young.
Weak.
“Harper?”
“Ethan?”
“Sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“I didn't know who else to call.”
Harper swung her feet out of bed.
“What happened?”
“My dad's gone.”
“What do you mean gone?”
“He left around four.”
“Maybe he went home.”
“No.”
Ethan lowered his voice.
“He told security he was going downstairs for coffee.”
Harper waited.
“He never came back.”
“Have you called him?”
“Twenty times.”
“What about his people?”
“They're looking.”
“Then why call me?”
Silence.
“Because Dad said something before he left.”
“What?”
“He asked whether you still had the card.”
Harper looked at the business card on her table.
“Yes.”
“Turn it over.”
She did.
Nothing.
“There's a black strip at the bottom.”
Harper rubbed her thumb across it.
The strip peeled away.
Underneath was a handwritten number.
Not a phone number.
Six digits.
“What is this?”
“I don't know.”
Then Harper heard movement on Ethan's end.
A door.
“Someone's here,” Ethan whispered.
“Ethan?”
No answer.
“Ethan?”
A man's voice came faintly through the phone.
“Mr. Moretti, your father sent me.”
Harper froze.
“Ethan, don't—”
The call ended.
She stared at the six-digit number.
Then another message appeared on her phone.
Unknown sender.
A photograph.
Damian Moretti was sitting in a chair.
May you like
His hands were bound.
And behind him stood Ethan's uncle Vincent.
