Chapter 7 - The Ironing Room Fire
I landed hard on a mound of wet coal dust, my boots skidding out from under me before Luca’s strong arm caught my waist.
He pulled me upright into the deep shadows beneath the basement timber beams.
The underground air was thick with the suffocating smell of leaking commercial gas and sulfur.
A low, rhythmic hiss came from the corner where the main copper utility pipe entered through the concrete foundation.
Two thick black rubber hoses had been spliced directly into the supply line, running up toward the ceiling joints.
Cross’s men had rigged the basement to become an incendiary chamber.
Luca clicked on a low-intensity infrared flashlight mounted beneath the barrel of his weapon.
The narrow beam cut through the subterranean gloom, illuminating the concrete pillars and forgotten storage crates.
Above our heads, through the heavy pine floorboards, came the sound of deliberate, heavy footsteps.
Two men.
Combat boots pacing back and forth across the hardwood of my mother’s sewing room.
Then, a muffled, terrified whimper echoed through the ceiling vents.
My mother.
My chest tightened until I couldn't pull air into my lungs.
Luca stepped in front of me, pressing his palm flat against my back, his touch grounding my spiraling terror.
“Breathe, Grace,” he whispered directly into my ear, his breath warm against my rain-soaked skin.
“They haven't lit the fuse yet.”
“That means they’re holding her as a live trigger until they confirm my death on the street.”
He pointed his flashlight toward the far wall behind an ancient cast-iron industrial steam press.
There, half-hidden behind stacks of yellowing fabric bolts, was the narrow wooden door of the old dumbwaiter.
We moved across the basement floor like ghosts, avoiding the rusted pipes and broken floor tiles.
Luca wedged the tip of his tactical knife into the wooden latch, popping the small square door open without a squeak.
Inside, the thick hemp ropes and heavy iron counterweights hung in the narrow brick shaft.
It was barely two feet wide, designed fifty years ago to haul heavy bolts of wool between floors.
“Can you climb the rope with that injured arm?” Luca asked, studying the bloody bandage on my forearm.
“I spent my childhood climbing up this shaft when I forgot my front door key,” I said, grit replacing my fear.
“I can do it.”
“I’ll be right behind you,” Luca said.
“When you reach the second-floor service panel, do not open it until I tap your boot.”
I holstered the Glock into the waistband of my trousers, reached up, and grabbed the rough hemp rope.
A sharp spike of pain shot through my injured forearm as the muscle contracted, but I bit down hard on my lower lip.
I pulled myself upward into the dark vertical shaft, using the brick mortar joints for toeholds.
Every inch was a battle against gravity, the rope scratching against my palms as coal dust fell into my hair.
Through the thin lath and plaster of the shaft walls, I could hear voices speaking in cold, calculated tones.
“...diversion on the street is getting heavy,” a rough voice said from the kitchen just beyond the wall.
“Cross said we light this place up the minute the Moretti car is accounted for.”
“What about the old lady?” a second voice grunted.
“She’s tied to the radiator in the parlor.”
“Leave her.”
“The gas explosion will make it look like a tragic infrastructure failure.”
“City inspectors won't find enough teeth to run a dental match.”
Pure rage erupted through my veins, obliterating the pain in my arm.
I reached the second-floor landing panel, pressing my boots firmly against two protruding iron bracket pegs.
Below me, Luca climbed with terrifying efficiency, his massive frame moving up the vertical shaft without a whisper of noise.
He reached my boots, tapping the leather heel twice.
The signal.
Luca reached past my shoulder, his large fingers catching the edges of the wooden access panel.
With a sudden, violent heave of pure muscle, he tore the panel completely out of the plaster wall.
The wood splintered with the crack of a pistol shot.
The mercenary standing in the narrow kitchen corridor spun around, his tactical shotgun coming up toward the opening.
Before the barrel could clear the doorway, Luca lunged out of the shaft like an enraged panther.
He caught the mercenary’s shotgun barrel with his bare left hand, shoving it upward toward the ceiling.
A deafening blast ripped through the plaster overhead, showering the kitchen in white dust.
Luca drove his right elbow into the man’s throat with sickening force.
The mercenary choked, his eyes rolling back as his windpipe collapsed under the brutal impact.
He slumped to the linoleum floor, unconscious before his head hit the boards.
The second mercenary burst through the parlor door, his pistol raised.
I didn't wait for Luca to recover his footing.
I rolled out of the dumbwaiter opening, hit the linoleum on one knee, and drew the Glock from my waist.
My father had taught me how to shoot tin cans off fence posts in Wisconsin when I was twelve years old.
Point at the center of the chest.
Do not hesitate.
I squeezed the trigger twice.
The suppressed weapon let out two dull, rhythmic coughs.
Both rounds struck the second mercenary square in the center of his tactical vest.
The sheer kinetic force staggered the man backward into the sewing room, his weapon slipping from his hand.
Luca crossed the kitchen floor in two strides, his heavy combat knife flashing under the dim amber hallway lamp.
With a single fluid strike, he neutralized the recovering intruder, dropping him permanently onto the hardwood floor.
Silence fell over the second-floor apartment, broken only by the ragged wheezing of someone weeping in the front parlor.
“Mom!” I cried, dropping my gun and sprinting down the narrow carpeted hall.
There, tied to the heavy cast-iron radiator beneath the front bay window, was my mother.
Martha Parker looked tiny, her frail body swathed in an oversized wool cardigan that hung loose over her withered shoulders.
Thick industrial duct tape bound her wrists behind the iron pipes, and a wide strip of gray tape covered her mouth.
Her gray hair was disheveled, her pale face streaked with tears and soot.
When she saw me burst through the parlor archway, her faded blue eyes widened in utter disbelief.
“Mom, I’m here, you’re safe, I’ve got you,” I sobbed, dropping to my knees beside the radiator.
I pulled the knife from the fallen mercenary's belt and sliced through the heavy zip-ties and tape.
The moment her hands were free, my mother threw her trembling arms around my neck, clinging to me with every ounce of strength she possessed.
“Grace... oh, dear God, Grace...” she wept against my shoulder.
“They said you were dead... they said the Moretti family had slaughtered everyone at the estate...”
“I’m alive, Mom,” I choked out, pressing my face into her hair.
“I’m right here.”
Luca stepped into the parlor doorway, his massive silhouette filling the frame.
His dark coat was stained with rain, blood, and plaster dust, but his expression had softened completely as he watched us.
He lowered his weapon, standing as a silent, immovable shield between the room and the dark hallway.
My mother slowly pulled back, her tear-filled eyes drifting over my shoulder toward the towering figure in black.
She looked at his sharp, aristocratic features, then down at the blood on my arm, and finally back at his face.
Her frail hand reached out, catching my sleeve with surprising firmness.
“Grace,” my mother whispered, her voice trembling with an emotion that wasn't just fear.
“Who is that man?”
“He’s my employer, Mom,” I said gently.
“He’s Luca Moretti.”
My mother didn't gasp in horror.
She didn't shrink away from the mafia don standing in her ruined parlor.
Instead, her breath hitched sharply, her eyes widening with a profound, terrifying recognition that sent a shockwave through my chest.
“No,” Martha whispered, staring at Luca’s face as if looking at a ghost from the grave.
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“That's not just your employer, Grace.”
“That is the son of the man who murdered your father twenty years ago.”
