Chapter 2 - The Caged Ghost
Behind the bookcase lay a narrow, claustrophobic stone passage, no wider than two feet, cutting directly through the core of the estate's historic brickwork.
A single, low-wattage yellow bulb hung from a frayed wire near the ceiling, casting long, grotesque shadows down a flight of narrow spiral stairs leading downward into the foundations of the house.
I stepped into the gap, my polished leather dress shoes crunching on dust and dried mortar.
"Who's down there?" I called out, my baritone echoing down the stone chute.
No answer. Only the sharp, terrified hitch of a woman's breath from the depths below.
I descended the stairs slowly, my left shoulder brushing the cold, damp brick. The temperature plummeted with every step, the air turning ice-cold. At the bottom of the twenty-foot drop, the passage opened into a small, windowless cell carved directly out of the estate's original stone foundation.
My blood ran instantly cold.
It was a holding cell. A heavy iron rebar door was set into the concrete wall, secured with an industrial-grade padlock.
And sitting on a rusted iron cot inside the cell, wrapped in a threadbare wool blanket, was a woman.
Her dark hair was matted and long, falling over her face in filthy strands. She was thin—scarily thin, her collarbones sharp against her pale, bruised skin. She cowered against the far corner of the cot, shielding her face from the yellow light of my flashlight with hands that were raw, scarred, and trembling violently.
"Please," she whimpered, her voice raspy and cracked from months of disuse. "Please... don't hit me again. I didn't say anything... I haven't said a word..."
I stood frozen on the concrete floor, my gun lowering by my side as sheer, unadulterated shock washed over me.
This wasn't an intruder. This was a prisoner.
And the lock on the iron door wasn't old. It was a high-security electronic padlock, the blue LED status light blinking quietly in the dark.
"Who did this to you?" I demanded, my voice tight with a sudden, violent rage that burned through the fog of my exhaustion. "Who put you down here?"
The woman slowly lowered her arms.
When her eyes met mine through the iron bars, a strange, choked gasp escaped her lips. Her sunken, bloodshot eyes widened in utter disbelief.
"R-Roman?" she whispered.
I took a step closer, shining the flashlight directly onto her face.
Despite the dirt, the hollow cheeks, and the pale, gaunt flesh, I recognized those eyes. I recognized the slight arch of her left eyebrow, the faint scar across her upper lip.
My heart stopped beating in my chest.
"Elena?" I breathed.
Elena Vance. The daughter of the Providence syndicate boss.
Six months ago, Elena Vance had vanished off the face of the earth. Her car had been found burning on the side of Interstate 95, wiped clean of prints. Her father, Thomas Vance, had blamed me. He had declared a silent, brutal shadow war against the Duca family, claiming I had ordered her abduction to force him out of the New England shipping ports.
It was the very reason I had spent tonight in that back room in Providence, fighting off three revolting lieutenants who were using her disappearance to tear my territory apart.
And all this time... she had been locked inside the walls of my own home.
"Roman... oh God, Roman..." Elena began to sob, her frail frame shaking violently beneath the thin blanket. "He said... he said you were the one who ordered it. He said you were going to kill me once my father signed over the docks..."
"Who?" I roared, stepping up to the iron bars, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the cold steel. "Who put you in this cell, Elena?!"
"Your... your uncle," she choked out, wiping her nose with the edge of the blanket. "Uncle Silvio. He... he comes down here every three days. He brings bread, water... and documents for me to sign. He said... he said if I tried to scream, he'd kill the housekeeper's children..."
The world spun around me for a fraction of a second.
Silvio Duca. My father’s younger brother. The chief advisor to the Duca estate, the man who handled the family's internal accounts, and the man who had been sitting at my right hand for five years.
Silvio hadn't just orchestrated a kidnapping. He had staged an internal coup. By holding Elena Vance hostage in my private study's hidden wall, he had manufactured a war between the Ducas and Providence—a war designed to bleed my authority dry until the capos demanded I be replaced.
And he had used the threat of murdering Grace Harper’s children to keep Elena quiet.
"Stand back," I growled, stepping away from the iron door.
"Roman, the lock—"
I raised my revolver, aimed directly at the heavy electronic locking mechanism, and fired three point-blank rounds!
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The thunderous explosions inside the enclosed concrete cell were deafening, earsplitting, ringing through my skull like a sledgehammer. Sparks erupted from the lock as the heavy steel bolt shattered under the lead impact.
I kicked the door open with the heel of my boot.
The iron gate swung open with a rusted screech. I stepped inside the cell, dropped my gun into my coat pocket, and knelt in front of the trembling woman. Without a word, I scooped her light, fragile frame into my arms, wrapping her in my heavy wool overcoat.
"I'm getting you out of here," I said, my voice low, firm, and absolute. "And then I'm going to tear this city apart."
May you like
As I carried Elena toward the narrow stone stairs, the quiet ticking of the house above us was shattered by a sharp, high-pitched scream echoing down from the study.
It was Mia.
