Chapter 4 - Shadows Over Tribeca
The peace in the penthouse was an illusion, and Camryn knew it. You cannot live in the home of a wolf without eventually hearing the pack outside.
It happened in late November. The first snow had begun to fall over the Hudson, turning the river into a gray slate. Leo had fallen asleep on Camryn’s shoulder after a long afternoon of drawing with crayons on butcher paper.
She was carrying him toward his bedroom when the elevator doors hissed open with a sharp, violent clatter.
Three men stepped out. They weren't Matteo’s regular security guards. These men wore dark overcoats that smelled of wet wool and cheap cologne. One of them had a long, jagged scar running from his ear to the corner of his mouth—Salva Moretti, the underboss of the rival Marcone family.
"Where is he, girl?" Salva asked, his voice like grinding stones. He didn't look at the child; his eyes went straight to the heavy double doors of Matteo’s study.
"Mr. DeLuca is in a meeting," Camryn said, her voice dropping an octave as she instinctively shielded Leo’s head with her hand. "You shouldn't be here."
"I go where I want in this town now," Salva sneered, taking a step toward her. "The DeLuca name doesn't carry the weight it used to. Not since he let his wife burn and turned his kid into a mute."
Before Camryn could reply, the study door swung open.
Matteo stood there. He wasn't wearing his jacket. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing the heavy, thick muscles of his forearms and the old tattoos of the old country. His face was entirely devoid of expression—a mask of absolute, lethal stillness.
"Salva," Matteo said. His voice wasn't loud, but it filled the 15,000 square feet like an iron curtain dropping. "You crossed the canal without an invitation."
"The old man wants to talk, Matteo," Salva said, though he took a half-step back, his hand moving toward his coat. "The docks in Brooklyn. We take forty percent, or the shipments stop moving entirely. We ain't waiting for your kid to grow up to find out if the DeLuca line is dead."
Matteo didn't look at Salva. He looked at Camryn. "Take Leo to the panic room. Now."
Camryn didn't hesitate. She knew where it was—the hidden door behind the bookshelf in the master suite. She turned, but Salva, wanting to show his men he wasn't afraid, reached out an arm to block her path. "Hold on, girl. The kid stays. Maybe his dad will be more reasonable if—"
Salva never finished the sentence.
Matteo moved with a speed that defied his size. In one breath, he was ten feet away; in the next, his fist had connected with Salva’s jaw with a sound like a splitting log. The underboss crashed against the marble floor, his nose instantly spouting crimson. Before the other two men could draw their weapons, four of Matteo’s guards emerged from the side halls, their submachine guns raised and ready.
"Get them out of my sight," Matteo whispered, his breath steady, his eyes fixed on the bleeding man on the floor. "Tell Marcone that if his dogs touch my floor again, I won't send them back in pieces. I won't send them back at all."
The guards dragged the men into the elevator.
Camryn stood by the hallway, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Leo had woken up from the noise, his eyes wide and trembling, but he wasn't crying. He was looking at his father’s bloody knuckles.
Matteo turned to them. The rage in his eyes was terrifying, the raw energy of a man who lived by the blade. But as he looked at Camryn’s pale face and Leo’s small, shaking form, the tension left his shoulders. He looked down at his hand, saw the blood, and immediately tucked it behind his back.
"Are you hurt?" Matteo asked, his voice rough.
"No," Camryn whispered. She walked toward him, ignoring the blood on the floor. She stopped just two feet away. "But your hand is."
She didn't run. She didn't call him a monster. She just looked at him with the same clear, unblinking eyes she used when Leo was having a tantrum.
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Matteo looked down at her. "You should leave, Camryn. This is what my life is. It doesn't get better."
"I’m not leaving," she said, her voice low and fierce. "My mother has three more months of treatment. And Leo needs his fort. Wash your hand, Matteo. Then come help me put him back to sleep."
