Chapter 4 - The Mafia Boss Who Came Through the Fire
Gemma had reached the fourth landing when the first gunshot shattered the silence.
She threw herself against the wall.
A second shot followed, striking the metal railing above her head and sending fragments of paint across her hair.
For one terrible moment, she could not move.
She had heard gunshots in movies and on television, but the real sound was different. It was sharper, more violent, and accompanied by the sudden understanding that someone had intended to put a bullet into a living person.
She pressed a hand over her mouth.
Footsteps thundered below.
"Gemma!"
A man's voice rose through the stairwell.
She could not tell whether it belonged to the person chasing her or someone trying to help.
Her phone vibrated again.
Roman.
"Are you out?" he demanded when she answered.
"There's someone in the stairwell!"
"Which landing?"
"Fourth floor!"
"Go up. Do not go back toward the gallery."
"There's nowhere to go!"
"There's a maintenance door on the sixth-floor landing. It opens onto the roof access corridor. Get there."
Another gunshot rang out.
Gemma ran.
Her handbag struck her hip. The brass key inside it seemed impossibly heavy, although she knew it weighed almost nothing. She climbed the steps two at a time until her lungs burned and her ankle throbbed.
At the fifth-floor landing, a door slammed below her.
Someone was coming.
She reached the sixth floor and found the maintenance door.
Locked.
"No, no, no."
She pulled the handle again.
It would not move.
"Gemma, listen to me," Roman said through the phone. "There's a security panel to your left."
"I can't see anything!"
"Feel along the wall."
Her fingers found a small metal box.
"There's a keypad."
"Enter seven, two, one, nine. Then pull hard."
She punched the numbers.
The lock clicked.
Gemma dragged the door open and stumbled into a narrow corridor filled with cleaning supplies and electrical equipment.
At the other end, daylight shone through a stairwell window.
She ran toward it.
The corridor door slammed behind her.
A man emerged wearing a black jacket and dark gloves. His face was partially hidden beneath a cap, but she saw the gun in his right hand.
"Give me the key," he ordered.
Gemma stopped.
For one brief second, her entire world narrowed to the weapon.
"What key?"
"The one your father left you."
She clutched her handbag.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
The man moved toward her.
"Don't make this difficult."
She looked at the window beside her. It was narrow, reinforced, and several floors above the alley. Jumping would be suicide.
Then she noticed the fire extinguisher mounted on the wall.
The gunman saw her eyes move.
"Don't."
He raised the weapon.
Gemma grabbed the extinguisher and pulled the lever.
A cloud of white chemical powder exploded between them.
The man swore, coughing as the corridor filled with dust.
Gemma ran past him.
She reached the roof-access door just as it burst open from the other side.
Roman stood there with two armed security men behind him.
For the first time since she had met him, he looked completely different.
The careful stillness was gone.
His face was hard, his eyes cold, and the hand holding his weapon was steady.
He caught Gemma by the arm and pulled her behind him.
"Get down," he ordered.
The gunman emerged from the chemical cloud.
Roman fired once.
The man dropped his weapon and collapsed against the wall, clutching his leg.
Gemma screamed.
Roman turned immediately.
"Look at me."
She could barely breathe.
"Look at me, Gemma."
Her eyes found his.
"Are you hurt?"
She shook her head.
"Are you sure?"
"My ankle."
"Anything else?"
"No."
Roman studied her face, checking for blood, then lowered his weapon slightly.
"Good."
Behind him, one of his men secured the gunman while the other checked the corridor.
Gemma stared at Roman.
"You shot him."
"He was pointing a gun at you."
"You shot someone in front of me!"
"Would you have preferred that he shoot you?"
She recoiled at the bluntness of his answer.
Roman saw it and immediately softened his voice.
"No. That was unfair. I'm sorry."
The apology surprised her so much that, for a moment, she forgot to be frightened.
A distant siren sounded below.
One of Roman's men approached.
"The front entrance is clear. We have the rest of the building secured."
"Where's Martin Shaw?" Gemma asked suddenly.
Roman turned.
"Who?"
"Martin Shaw. He was outside the conservation room. Someone attacked him."
Roman spoke into his earpiece.
"Find Martin. Medical team to the west corridor. Alive if possible."
Gemma grabbed Roman's sleeve.
"Please."
His gaze dropped to her hand.
Then he looked back at her face.
"We'll find him."
She released him slowly.
Roman guided her through the roof access corridor and down a private staircase. At the bottom, a service elevator opened onto the underground parking garage.
A black SUV waited with its engine running.
Gemma refused to get inside.
"No."
Roman stopped.
"Gemma—"
"No more cars, secret rooms, armed men, and unexplained instructions. I'm going home."
"You can't."
"Watch me."
"Someone just tried to kill you."
"And someone just got shot because I was in your building!"
"Because you were carrying something they wanted."
"Which I found in my workplace, in a painting that you own!"
The words struck him.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Roman nodded.
"You're right."
Gemma had prepared herself for anger, not agreement.
He continued, "The painting belongs to a company controlled by my family. Your father hid something inside it. Someone discovered that you found it. That's why you were attacked."
He held her gaze.
"But the person who sent the gunman is not me, and the man who tried to kill you is not one of mine."
"You expect me to believe you?"
"No. I expect you to examine the evidence when we have it."
She looked toward the elevator.
"I want to call the police."
"You can."
"Will you stop me?"
Roman's expression darkened.
"No."
"Will you have them arrested when they arrive?"
"If they are involved in what happened, I'll cooperate."
She almost laughed.
"You're a mafia boss promising to cooperate with the police."
"I'm a man telling you that you have a right to make your own decision."
She had no idea what to do with that answer.
After a long silence, Gemma looked at the gun lying on the floor behind him.
"Where are you taking me?"
"Somewhere secure. You'll have a private room, a phone, and a door you can lock from the inside. You can leave when you're ready, and I'll arrange transportation wherever you choose to go."
"And if I decide to walk out immediately?"
"I won't stop you."
She searched his face for deception.
He looked dangerous, exhausted, and entirely sincere.
Finally, Gemma stepped into the SUV.
"Until I understand what's happening," she said, "you don't touch my belongings, read my messages, or make decisions for me."
Roman climbed in after her.
"Agreed."
"And you tell me everything you know about my father."
He paused.
"Agreed."
She pointed a finger at him.
"That includes the ugly parts."
Roman's jaw tightened.
"Especially the ugly parts."
The safe house was an old brownstone on a quiet street in Brooklyn Heights.
From the outside, it looked unremarkable. Inside, however, it had reinforced doors, discreet cameras, and a small team of security personnel who greeted Roman without asking questions.
Gemma was taken to a bedroom overlooking a narrow garden.
There were clean clothes in the wardrobe, fresh towels in the bathroom, and a phone on the bedside table.
She checked the lock.
It worked from the inside.
Roman had kept his word.
That did not mean she trusted him.
She changed into a gray sweatshirt and black trousers, then returned to the living room.
Roman stood beside the fireplace, speaking with Dominic.
"Martin is alive," Dominic reported. "He has a broken rib and a concussion. He was found unconscious near the conservation room. The ambulance is taking him to a private hospital."
"Will he recover?"
"The doctor thinks so."
Roman nodded.
"Find out who attacked him."
"We already have a description. Same build as the gunman, but we haven't confirmed whether it was the same person."
Dominic noticed Gemma in the doorway.
He ended the conversation and introduced himself.
"Dominic Bellini."
"You're his second-in-command?"
Dominic glanced at Roman.
"Among other unfortunate responsibilities."
Gemma did not smile.
"Did you know someone was tracking me?"
"No," Dominic answered. "If I had, you wouldn't have been allowed into that gallery without a warning."
"That doesn't make me feel better."
"It wasn't intended to."
Roman gave him a look.
Dominic lifted both hands.
"I'll get coffee."
When he left, Gemma approached Roman.
"You said my father worked for your family."
"He did."
"What did he do?"
"He restored paintings and authenticated works of art. My father acquired pieces through legitimate auctions and private sales. Elias helped establish their provenance."
"And the illegal part?"
Roman looked at the fireplace.
"My family used art to move money. Some paintings were acquired honestly. Others were stolen or purchased through shell companies. The paperwork made the transactions difficult to trace."
"Did my father know?"
"Eventually, yes."
"Did you?"
"Not everything."
She folded her arms.
"That's a convenient answer."
"It doesn't become a lie simply because it's convenient."
She stepped closer.
"When I was sixteen, my mother told me my father died in a warehouse fire. I spent years believing he had been careless, that he'd left some equipment running or ignored an electrical fault. I hated him for dying in a way that felt preventable, and then I hated myself for being angry at a dead man."
Her voice broke.
She turned away before Roman could see the tears filling her eyes.
"I want the truth."
Roman did not touch her.
He let the silence remain until she turned back.
"I remember Elias," he said. "He was a good man. He became frightened shortly before the fire. He tried to arrange a meeting with my father, but my father refused to see him."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"You were there."
"I was twenty-eight and fighting to keep my uncle from taking control of the family. I was dealing with threats against my business and people I cared about. I was told Elias had stolen documents and disappeared. By the time I learned about the fire, the investigation was already closed."
"Did you investigate?"
Roman looked down.
"Not properly."
The admission was so plain that Gemma could not immediately respond.
He continued.
"I told myself that someone else had handled it. I accepted the official report because I had more urgent problems. That decision may have cost your father his life."
She stared at him.
"That's the first honest thing you've said to me."
"Then I'll keep going."
Roman pulled a chair away from the table.
"Your father left a key. If it opens a locker at Pier Forty-Seven, we need to know what's inside. I believe the records may expose members of my family, including Dante."
"Why would you help me expose your own family?"
"Because Dante is trying to take control of the organization by murdering people who know too much. Because my father built a criminal empire that should have ended before it reached another generation. And because your father may have died trying to stop it."
Gemma sat down.
For the first time, she considered that Roman's interest in the case might be more complicated than possession.
"There's something else," she said.
She removed the brass key and her father's letter from her handbag.
Roman did not reach for them.
Instead, he waited for her permission.
She unfolded the paper and placed it on the table between them.
He read it carefully.
When he reached Dante's name, his expression became unreadable.
"Your father suspected him," he said.
"He knew him."
"Yes."
"Did Dante work with my father?"
"Possibly. He was involved in the family's art acquisitions, but I don't know how closely."
Gemma tapped the final paragraph.
"My father said if Dante found the letter, I should run."
"Then we should assume Dante knows about the key."
"Which means the locker might already be empty."
"Possibly."
She studied him.
"Are you afraid of your cousin?"
Roman took a long breath.
"I'm afraid of what he's willing to do to win."
It was not the same answer.
Somehow, it was more unsettling.
A phone rang in the next room.
Dominic answered it, listened for several seconds, and returned with a grave expression.
"Roman, we have a problem."
"What is it?"
"The gunman at the gallery has been identified. His name is Victor Rusk. He worked for Dante for eight years."
Roman's eyes hardened.
"And?"
Dominic looked at Gemma.
"Before he was taken to the hospital, Rusk said Dante gave him a specific instruction."
"What instruction?"
Dominic hesitated.
"He was ordered to recover the key and eliminate Elias Vale's daughter. No witnesses."
Gemma felt the room tilt.
Roman moved toward her, then stopped himself before reaching for her hand.
"I'm sorry," he said.
She looked at the letter, then at the key.
Her father had died trying to hide the truth.
Now someone wanted her dead for finding it.
She slowly closed her fingers around the brass key.
"Then we'll find what's inside the locker."
Roman studied her.
"Gemma, you don't have to do this."
"Yes, I do."
"You could give me the key and walk away."
"No."
"Why?"
Her eyes shone with tears, but her voice remained steady.
"Because I spent ten years mourning a man who may have been murdered, and I refuse to spend the rest of my life wondering why."
For the first time, Roman understood that Gemma's courage was not the absence of fear.
It was what she did after fear had made itself impossible to ignore.
He nodded.
"Then we go together."
At midnight, Roman stood alone in the kitchen while the others slept.
He looked at the surveillance monitor displaying the quiet street outside the brownstone.
A dark sedan had passed the house twice in twenty minutes.
The second time, it had slowed near the entrance.
Roman memorized the license plate.
Then he called Dominic.
"Put a team outside. No confrontation unless they approach the house."
"Understood."
Roman ended the call.
A moment later, another message appeared on his phone.
No number.
No identifying information.
Just one sentence.
You should have let the girl freeze in the gallery.
Roman read it twice.
Then another message arrived.
Now she knows you're a Costa. Let's see if she survives learning what a Costa really did to her father.
Roman stared at the screen.
For ten years, someone had controlled the story of Elias Vale's death.
Someone had turned a murder into an accident, buried the evidence, and trusted that the world would eventually forget.
That someone had now made a mistake.
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They had forced Gemma Vale into Roman Costa's life.
And Roman had finally found something he was willing to risk his empire to protect.
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