Chapter 2 - The Monster in the Hallway
The silence that followed Emma’s small, trembling voice was heavier than the smoke in the Boston cigar lounge. Matteo kept his boot pinned firmly against Derek Walsh’s chest, the leather of his expensive shoe sinking into the man's stained shirt. Derek gasped for air, his eyes bulging as he finally realized the man standing over him wasn't a neighbor or a passing cop. This was a predator from a completely different echelon of the food chain.
"Matt?" the voice drifted down the stairs again, smaller this time, fragile as spun glass. "He... he said he was going to break my phone."
"He won't touch your phone, Emma. And he will never touch you again," Matteo called back. His voice, usually a cold instrument of command that made hardened criminals sweat, softened into something unrecognizable even to himself. It was the tone Michael Rodriguez used to use when Isabella was scared of thunder.
Matteo looked down at Derek. The man was trembling now, the alcohol-induced bravado draining from his face, replaced by the primitive terror of a cornered animal.
"You're going to stay right here," Matteo whispered, leaning down so close Derek could see the absolute lack of mercy in his dark eyes. "If you make a sound, if you even breathe too loudly while I go get that little girl, I will make sure the rest of your life is measured in seconds. Do you understand me?"
Derek nodded frantically, his hands raised in surrender.
Matteo stood up, adjusting his coat. He glanced at Sarah Peterson on the floor. Her breathing was still shallow, but the bleeding from her forehead had slowed. He needed to get Emma down, get them out, and call his private medical team. The city hospitals carried questions, police reports, and paper trails. Matteo didn't do paper trails. He fixed things permanently.
He walked up the creaking wooden stairs, his footsteps deliberate and light. The second floor of the small house was dark, save for a sliver of light leaking from a closet door at the end of the hall. The walls were lined with cheap, framed drawings—mostly stick figures of a little girl, a smiling woman, and a big house with a sun in the corner. There was no father in the drawings.
"Emma?" Matteo said softly as he reached the top landing. "It's Matt. I'm the one you texted."
The closet door creaked open a fraction of an inch. A single, wide blue eye peered out through the crack, blinking against the darkness of the hallway. Matteo stopped a few feet away, dropping to one knee so he wouldn't tower over her. He placed his hands flat on his thighs, showing her he wasn't holding a weapon.
"You're big," a tiny voice whispered.
"I am," Matteo admitted, a faint, tragic ghost of a smile touching his lips. "But I'm here to help. I promised you I'd come, didn't I?"
The door opened fully. Emma Peterson was small for eight years old, wearing faded blue pajamas with cartoon puppies on them. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, and she was clutching a cracked smartphone like it was a lifeline. Her face was smudged with dust, and tears had tracked clean lines down her cheeks. But when she looked at him, she didn't see the feared mafia don of the North End. She saw the man who had answered.
"Is Mama okay?" she whispered, her lips trembling. "He hit her really hard, Matt. She fell down and she didn't get back up."
"Your mama is asleep right now, Emma. She's hurt, but she's breathing. I have special doctors who are going to make her all better," Matteo said, his voice steady, anchoring her panic. "Can you come out for me?"
Emma hesitated for a second, then crawled out of the closet. She didn't just walk to him; she launched her small body forward, burying her face into the wool of his expensive black coat. Matteo froze. For a solid three seconds, the most dangerous man in Boston didn't know what to do with his arms. It had been fifteen years since a child had held him. He felt the phantom weight of his sister Isabella in his grip, the memory slamming into his chest like a physical blow.
Slowly, carefully, as if she might break, Matteo wrapped his large arms around her, lifting her off the ground. She was so light. Too light.
"I've got you," he murmured, burying his hand in her tangled blonde curls. "I've got you, Emma."
As he stood up, carrying her against his shoulder, he shielded her eyes so she wouldn't see the hallway or the stairs. But as they reached the bottom of the steps, Derek Walsh made his second, and final, mistake.
Thinking Matteo was distracted with the child, Derek had crawled toward the kitchen, his hand wrapping around the handle of a heavy cast-iron skillet on the counter. He was trying to stand, his face twisted in a desperate, drunken rage.
Matteo stopped at the base of the stairs. He didn't flinch. He didn't panic. With Emma's face pressed firmly into his neck, he reached into his jacket, pulled a silenced semi-automatic pistol, and fired two precise shots into Derek’s kneecaps.
The silencer coughed—thwip, thwip.
Derek collapsed instantly, his scream muffled by his own shock as he clutched his shattered legs, weeping silently in the dark kitchen.
"What was that noise?" Emma asked, her voice muffled against Matteo's coat.
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"Just a loose floorboard, sweetheart," Matteo said smoothly, slipping the gun back into his holster without a single change in his breathing. "Let's go wait for the doctors outside, okay?"
He stepped over the debris, walked out the front door, and into the cool Boston night, leaving the monster bleeding in the dark.
