Chapter 2 - The Ghost of Ashwood Nursing Home and the Stolen Brother
The Mercedes glided through the rain-slicked streets of Brooklyn like a black shark cutting through deep water.
Inside, the leather seats were warm, but I was still shivering from the bitter cold of the alley.
Andrew had taken off his heavy wool coat and wrapped it entirely around my small frame, leaving him in just a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
I stared at his forearms in wide-eyed awe.
They were corded with thick, powerful muscles, crisscrossed with faint, jagged white scars that looked like the remnants of old knife wounds or bullet grazes.
Up front, his two main enforcers—a mountain of a man named Marcus and a sharp-eyed sniper named Julian—spoke in low, rapid tones over a secure radio system.
“The eastern perimeter of Ashwood Nursing Home is locked down,” Julian’s voice hummed through the dash.
“Sterling’s men have blocked the main entrance with three delivery vans, but there’s a service elevator on the west side that’s unguarded. They think they’re untouchable.”
Andrew stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle twitched near his temple.
He was still holding my crumpled five-dollar bill in his left hand, his thumb rhythmically tracing the shaky red ink on the back.
“They aren't untouchable,” Andrew said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
“They’re just dead men who haven't stopped breathing yet.”
He turned his gaze toward me, softening his expression so I wouldn't be scared.
“Ivy,” he said softly, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from my forehead.
“Tell me about the man your mommy saved. Tell me everything she told you about Daniel Mercer.”
I blinked, pulling the heavy coat closer around my chin.
“Mommy said he was trapped on the fourth floor, in room 402,” I whispered, looking down at his lap.
“She said the door was always locked from the outside, and the nurses weren't allowed to go in except for two men in gray suits who brought him his food and his red medicine.”
Andrew’s breath hitched.
“The red medicine,” he growled, the fury returning to his eyes like a flash fire.
“They were poisoning him slowly to make it look like natural organ failure. If he died quietly, Ronald Sterling would inherit the entire Mercer shipping empire without a single shareholder raising a question.”
“Mommy noticed the chart was wrong,” I continued, feeling important that I could help.
“She said his pulse was dropping every single day after those men came. So one night, when everyone was asleep, she picked the lock with a bobby pin. She went inside and switched his medicine with saline water.”
Andrew closed his eyes for a second, a single tear escaping and tracking down his scarred cheek.
“My little brother,” he whispered, his voice cracking with nine years of buried grief.
“I searched for him everywhere after the yacht explosion. I burned down half of Boston looking for his body. I never knew… I never knew they kept him breathing just to squeeze the life out of him drop by drop.”
“He woke up before Mommy ran away,” I added eagerly.
“He grabbed her wrist. He was very weak, Mr. Andrew. He had gray hair and a long beard, but his eyes were the same color as yours. He told her his name was Daniel. And then he said something scary.”
Andrew leaned closer. “What did he say, Ivy?”
“He said: ‘Tell my brother Andrew that the snake in our house bit me. Tell him I’m still here.’”
Andrew let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob.
He pulled me into a fierce, protective hug that squeezed the air right out of my lungs.
“He’s alive,” Andrew murmured against my hair.
“My little brother is alive, and these bastards are going to pay for every single day he spent in that hell.”
The car suddenly slowed to a crawl as the towering brick facade of Ashwood Nursing Home loomed ahead of us through the pouring rain.
It looked peaceful from the outside, with its ivy-covered walls and warm yellow porch lights.
But I knew the truth.
Behind those brick walls, bad men had my mommy.
And behind us, an army of black-suited killers was about to storm the gates.
Andrew opened the car door, stepping out into the cold rain without a umbrella.
He looked back at me, reaching out a massive, scarred hand.
“Stay in the car with Marcus, Ivy,” Andrew ordered gently.
“No,” I said stubbornly, sliding out of the heavy coat and grabbing his hand with my tiny fingers.
“I have a contract. The client always stays with the boss until the job is done.”
Andrew stared down at my small hand locked tightly around his massive index finger.
A rare, faint smile touched the corners of his lips.
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“You’re a stubborn one, Ivy Callahan,” he muttered, his eyes flashing with lethal intent.
“Alright. Come along, partner. Let’s go get your mommy.”
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