Chapter 1 - The Man Beneath the House
Marisol Vega pulled at the rope and whispered:
“I’m getting you out.”
The bound man looked at the brass key hanging from her cleaning cart.
A black number had been scratched into its back.
Dante Moretti stopped breathing.
“That key belongs to the man who put me here.”
For one second, Marisol did not move.
Her yellow rubber glove remained wrapped around the thick rope cutting across Dante’s chest. Water dripped somewhere beyond the rusted pipes. Above them, an old floorboard groaned.
Then Dante’s eyes lifted toward the ceiling.
“Turn off your flashlight.”
“What?”
“Now.”
Something in his voice made her obey.
The basement fell into darkness except for the gray strip of evening light pushing through the barred window near the ceiling.
Marisol could barely see him.
She could hear him breathing.
Slow.
Controlled.
Painful.
She had entered the abandoned row house twenty minutes earlier believing it was nothing more than another cleanup assignment from Harbor City Property Services.
The work order had been strange.
No owner listed.
Cash bonus for finishing before midnight.
Basement included.
Do not contact neighbors.
She should have walked away.
She had almost done exactly that when she saw the broken front lock.
Instead, she had thought about rent.
About the overdue electric bill.
About the envelope from her mother’s assisted-living facility sitting unopened on her kitchen table.
So she had carried her bucket inside.
Now she was kneeling beside a half-conscious stranger tied to an iron post.
And someone was walking upstairs.
Dante turned his face toward her.
Even exhausted, he looked dangerous.
He was perhaps thirty-eight, broad-shouldered despite days of captivity, with black hair falling damply across his forehead and dark stubble shadowing a sharp jaw. Tattoos disappeared beneath the open collar of his filthy white dress shirt.
A black suit jacket hung from his shoulders.
One trouser leg had been ripped above the thigh.
Marisol had seen the wound.
She wished she had not.
It was not bleeding heavily anymore.
That was somehow worse.
The skin surrounding it had turned angry and swollen.
“You need a hospital,” she whispered.
“I need the rope off first.”
Another step sounded overhead.
Marisol swallowed.
“Who’s upstairs?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t have been chained here for six days.”
Six days.
She stared at him.
“How are you alive?”
“Bad people sometimes need their prisoners alive.”
His eyes dropped to the brass key.
“Where did you get that?”
“It was attached to the work order.”
“Who hired you?”
“My company.”
“Who hired them?”
“I don’t know.”
Dante closed his eyes briefly.
Marisol noticed something then.
Not fear.
Calculation.
He was putting pieces together.
“Your name,” he said.
She hesitated.
“Marisol.”
His eyes opened.
“Last name.”
“No.”
A faint expression crossed his face.
Almost amusement.
“You found a man chained in a basement and now you’re worried about privacy?”
“I don’t know who you are.”
“That’s probably why you’re still standing.”
Footsteps moved toward the basement door.
Marisol froze.
Dante’s expression changed instantly.
“Behind the furnace.”
She shook her head.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You can’t help me if they find you.”
The doorknob rattled.
Marisol looked across the basement.
The old furnace stood ten feet away.
No time.
She grabbed the handle of her cleaning cart and pushed it behind a stack of wooden crates.
Then she crouched behind the furnace.
The basement door opened.
Light poured down the stairs.
Two men descended.
Marisol pressed one hand over her mouth.
The first wore a charcoal coat and leather gloves.
The second was heavier, bald, with a scar crossing one eyebrow.
Dante’s head had dropped forward again.
He looked unconscious.
The man in the coat stopped several feet away.
“Still breathing.”
Dante gave no response.
Scar-Eyebrow kicked his shoe.
Nothing.
“Boss wants the signature tonight,” he said.
“He won’t sign.”
“Then Russo starts removing people.”
The first man laughed.
“Everybody signs eventually.”
Marisol felt her pulse hammering in her throat.
Russo.
The name meant nothing to her.
Not yet.
The first man walked toward the post.
“You know what happens at midnight, Moretti?”
Marisol’s breath caught.
Moretti.
Dante Moretti.
She knew that name.
Everyone in Baltimore knew that name.
He had been on television for two weeks.
Missing waterfront businessman.
Philanthropist.
Nightclub owner.
Possible organized-crime figure.
Depending on which news station you watched.
Some reports said he had fled the country.
Others said he had been murdered.
One reporter claimed his disappearance might trigger the largest underworld power struggle Baltimore had seen in decades.
And Marisol was crouched eight feet away from him holding a bottle of industrial disinfectant.
The man in the coat continued.
“Your cousins are already fighting among themselves. Your captains don’t know who to trust. Russo will own everything by Friday.”
Dante slowly raised his head.
“You talk too much, Owen.”
The man stiffened.
Dante smiled faintly.
“You always did.”
Scar-Eyebrow stepped forward.
Dante’s expression remained calm.
“You think those ropes make you brave?”
“They make you helpless.”
“No.”
Dante looked toward the ceiling.
“They make you careless.”
Owen’s confidence flickered.
Then a phone rang upstairs.
Scar-Eyebrow cursed.
Owen looked toward the stairs.
“Stay with him.”
“You stay.”
“I’m the one Russo called.”
They stared at each other.
Neither wanted to remain alone with the chained man.
That told Marisol everything she needed to know about Dante Moretti.
Finally both men went upstairs.
The door shut.
Marisol waited.
Three seconds.
Five.
Ten.
Then she crawled from behind the furnace.
Dante immediately said, “The key.”
She brought it over.
“There isn’t a lock on the rope.”
“Not for the rope.”
He nodded toward the iron post.
Near the floor was a steel cuff connecting a short chain to a bracket.
Marisol inserted the brass key.
It fit.
Her eyes widened.
“How did you know?”
“Because I watched Russo use the same numbered keys for twelve years.”
She turned it.
Click.
The chain dropped.
Dante leaned sideways, fighting to stay conscious.
Marisol grabbed him.
He was heavier than he looked.
“Easy.”
“Knife.”
“What?”
“My pocket.”
She hesitated.
“Inside jacket. Left side.”
Marisol reached inside and found a small folding blade sewn into the lining.
“They missed that?”
“They found the first one.”
She stared at him.
“You carry two knives?”
“Usually three.”
Despite herself, she almost laughed.
Instead, she opened the blade and began sawing through the rope.
“Hurry,” he said.
“I am hurrying.”
“You clean faster than this?”
“I charge extra when the furniture talks.”
This time Dante actually smiled.
Only for a second.
Then the rope split.
His arms came free.
He tried to stand.
His injured leg buckled.
Marisol caught him.
“Don’t.”
“We’re leaving.”
“You can barely walk.”
“I can walk enough.”
“Those men are upstairs.”
“There are other exits.”
“You know this house?”
“No.”
“Then how—”
“I know people who build prisons.”
That answer did not comfort her.
Dante braced one hand against the post.
“Window?”
“Too small.”
“Coal chute?”
“Behind the furnace. Rusted shut.”
“Exterior cellar door?”
“I didn’t see one.”
“There will be one.”
“How do you know?”
“Baltimore row houses built before 1920 usually had rear basement access.”
Marisol stared at him.
“You’re a mafia boss who studies architecture?”
“I own buildings.”
Another sound above them.
A chair scraped.
Dante’s head turned.
“They’re arguing.”
“So?”
“So we have ninety seconds if we’re lucky.”
Marisol pulled his arm over her shoulder.
They moved.
Every step cost him.
She could feel the tremor in his body.
Not weakness exactly.
Fever.
She guided him toward the back wall.
There.
Behind collapsed shelving.
A narrow metal door.
Marisol pushed the shelves aside.
The door had been nailed shut.
Dante looked around.
“Crowbar?”
“I have a mop.”
He stared at her.
“I’m starting to understand why civilization is collapsing.”
She grabbed a metal pipe from the floor.
Together they wedged it against the door.
Once.
Twice.
The wood splintered.
Above them, someone shouted.
Dante pushed harder.
The door broke outward.
Cold harbor air rushed inside.
Marisol could have cried.
Instead, she helped him through.
They emerged into a narrow alley behind the abandoned house.
Trash bins.
Wet pavement.
A chain-link fence.
No people.
“Car?” Dante asked.
“Two blocks away.”
“Keys?”
“With me.”
“Phone?”
“In the car.”
He stared at her.
“You left your phone?”
“The house had no signal.”
“Good.”
“How is that good?”
“They can’t track what isn’t transmitting.”
Marisol had never once in her life considered whether anyone might track her cleaning supplies.
Tonight was rapidly becoming educational.
They made it halfway down the alley when the basement door slammed open behind them.
“There!”
Marisol ran.
Dante limped beside her.
A shot cracked against the brick wall.
She ducked.
Dante grabbed her wrist and dragged her behind a dumpster.
“You said they needed you alive!”
“They do.”
Another shot.
“That one was for me!”
“Yes.”
Marisol stared at him.
“You could sound more upset.”
“I am extremely upset.”
“You don’t look it.”
“I have a limited face.”
Another bullet hit metal.
Dante looked toward the street.
“How far to the car?”
“Blue Civic. Corner.”
“Can you drive fast?”
“I grew up in Miami.”
“Good enough.”
He moved first.
Marisol followed.
They reached the Civic.
She unlocked it.
Dante collapsed into the passenger seat.
Marisol jumped behind the wheel.
Owen appeared at the end of the alley.
She started the engine.
He raised his gun.
“Down!”
Dante pulled her sideways.
The rear window shattered.
Marisol screamed once.
Then she stomped on the accelerator.
The Civic jumped the curb.
A trash can flew sideways.
They tore onto Hanover Street.
For the next three minutes, neither spoke.
Marisol’s hands shook violently.
Dante watched the mirrors.
“Take the next right.”
“I’m going to a hospital.”
“No.”
“You have an infected wound.”
“The hospital will report a gunshot or stabbing.”
“So?”
“So Russo owns people in emergency rooms.”
She looked at him.
“You’re telling me hospitals work for the mafia?”
“I’m telling you money works everywhere.”
“Then police.”
“No.”
“Of course not.”
Dante’s head rolled against the seat.
His eyes closed.
Marisol slapped his shoulder.
“Stay awake.”
“I’m awake.”
“You’re unconscious with excellent timing.”
“North.”
“What?”
“Drive north.”
“Where?”
“Towson.”
“Why?”
“A doctor.”
She looked at the blood darkening his trousers.
“If you die in my car, I’m leaving you in the expensive suit.”
His eyes opened.
“Marisol.”
“What?”
“You never told me your last name.”
She stared forward.
“Still not going to.”
He studied her profile.
Then his gaze dropped.
On the dashboard sat her employee badge.
HARBOR CITY PROPERTY SERVICES.
MARISOL VEGA.
Dante went still.
“Vega.”
Her hands tightened on the steering wheel.
Something in the way he said it made cold travel down her spine.
“What?”
“Your father.”
Marisol looked at him.
“My father is dead.”
Dante said nothing.
“How do you know anything about my father?”
Silence.
“Dante.”
His expression had changed.
Whatever pain he felt seemed suddenly secondary.
“What was his name?”
“You tell me.”
He looked through the windshield.
“Mateo Vega.”
The Civic swerved.
Marisol corrected it.
“How do you know that name?”
Dante looked at her.
“Because Mateo Vega didn’t die in an accident.”
Marisol forgot the road.
Forgot the shattered rear window.
Forgot the armed men chasing them.
“What did you say?”
A pair of headlights appeared behind them.
Fast.
Too fast.
Dante checked the mirror.
His expression hardened.
“Drive.”
The vehicle accelerated.
Marisol pressed harder on the gas.
“Answer me!”
“I will.”
“When?”
“If we survive the next five minutes.”
The headlights closed the distance.
Then Dante saw the driver.
For the first time that night, genuine alarm crossed his face.
“No.”
Marisol looked at him.
“What?”
The black SUV moved beside them.
Its passenger window lowered.
The man inside leaned into view.
Marisol’s blood turned cold.
She knew his face.
She had known it for twelve years.
The man smiled directly at her.
Dante whispered one name.
“Victor Salazar.”
Marisol’s foot slipped from the accelerator.
May you like
Because Victor Salazar was the man who had attended her father’s funeral.
And he was supposed to have been dead for nine years.
