Chapter 8 - Blood on the Cobblestones
The convoy left the Castellani Tower at eight-fifteen in the morning, right as the city was waking up to a torrential autumn downpour.
Roman did not send enforcers to retrieve the canvases.
He refused to let Khloe out of his sight, and he refused to trust any subordinate with information that could bring down the entire syndicate structure.
They rode in an armored black Suburban with run-flat tires, flanked by two identical vehicles carrying six heavy operators armed with automatic carbines.
Khloe was dressed in a pair of Roman's tailored black trousers pinned at the waist, a heavy cashmere turtleneck, and a pair of leather boots from his private reserve.
Her hair was tied back in a low, practical ponytail.
She had left the glasses behind.
There was no point in wearing the camouflage anymore; every surveillance satellite and private investigator in the city already had high-resolution images of her face from the gala.
Roman sat beside her in the back seat, checking the slide on a modified Sig Sauer P226 before holstering it beneath his black wool overcoat.
"If the block is hot when we arrive, you do not exit the vehicle," Roman ordered, his voice clipping through the interior silence.
"I know the lock on the basement door," Khloe argued, her fingers clenching the strap of her leather shoulder bag.
"It's a sixty-year-old brass mortise lock with a seized tumbler."
"If your goons kick it down, they will trigger the fire suppression system and douse the canvases in high-pressure water."
"I have to open it myself."
Roman looked at her, his jaw tightening.
"You stay behind my shoulder."
"One step."
"Not three."
The convoy turned onto the narrow, potholed street in Queens where Khloe had lived for the past five years.
The neighborhood was dreary, gray, and completely saturated by the rain.
Water gushed along the curbs, carrying discarded takeout containers and sodden leaves into the storm drains.
The Suburban slowed to a halt fifty feet from the entrance of the four-story brick tenement.
The driver, a former private contractor named Miller, glanced at the rearview mirror.
"Block is quiet, boss," Miller reported, his hand resting on the receiver of a short-barreled shotgun tucked beside the console.
"No municipal vehicles."
"No unmarked sedans from the Southern District."
"Too quiet," Roman muttered, his instincts screaming that something was wrong.
"The Morettis don't move this slowly."
"They might not know the exact apartment number," Khloe suggested, peering through the rain-slicked window.
"My lease is held under my mother's maiden name, Clara Evans."
"They know," Roman said grimly.
"Bernardo Moretti's intelligence network reaches into every utility provider in the borough."
He unclipped his seatbelt and reached across the seat, pulling Khloe toward him with sudden force.
He reached into his pocket and produced a small, compact Glock 43, pressing the cold polymer grip into her palm.
"Do you know how to use this?"
Khloe looked at the weapon, feeling the heavy, terrifying weight of the metal.
"My father taught me how to shoot targets when I was twelve."
"Point it at the center of mass and pull the trigger," Roman said, his gray eyes boring into hers with chilling absolute clarity.
"Don't hesitate."
"Don't issue warnings."
"If anyone other than me or Miller reaches for you, you empty the magazine into their chest."
Khloe nodded slowly, slipping the compact firearm into the deep pocket of her coat.
"Understood."
They stepped out of the Suburban into the torrential rain, shielded beneath large black golf umbrellas held by two security operators.
They moved quickly across the cracked sidewalk and pushed through the unlocked glass front door of the tenement.
The lobby smelled of wet carpet, stale cabbage, and the faint, sweet scent of iron.
Roman stopped instantly, his hand snapping out to block Khloe's chest.
"Miller," Roman barked softly.
Miller drew his sidearm, stepping around the stairwell with his weapon raised.
Lying half-hidden behind the radiator at the foot of the stairs was the building superintendent, an elderly Polish immigrant who had fixed Khloe's plumbing for three years.
He was sprawled face-down in a widening pool of crimson, a clean nine-millimeter entry wound marking the center of his skull.
Khloe choked back a scream, pressing her knuckles against her mouth.
"They're inside," Roman hissed, drawing his Sig Sauer and pulling Khloe behind the heavy concrete pillar of the mailroom.
Before Miller could clear the second landing, the stairwell erupted in gunfire.
High-caliber rounds tore through the plaster walls, showering the lobby in white dust and shattered wood.
Miller returned fire instantly, three rapid double-taps echoing concussively through the narrow hallway as he fell back toward the entrance.
"Down!" Roman yelled, shoving Khloe flat against the damp linoleum floor and shielding her body with his own bulk.
He leaned around the corner of the brick pillar, his pistol barking three times with deafening precision.
A body tumbled down the upper flight of stairs, crashing heavily onto the landing with a thud of limp bone and leather.
It was one of Marco Moretti's street enforcers, wearing a dark waterproof jacket and carrying an automatic submachine gun.
"They aren't feds," Miller shouted over the ringing in their ears.
"These are Marco's personal hitters!"
"He bypassed the old man's orders," Roman growled, his teeth bared in a feral snarl.
"The little bastard wanted the girl for himself before the Commission could intervene."
More footsteps thundered on the stairs above them.
"The basement," Khloe gasped from beneath Roman's arm, her hand pointing toward a narrow wooden door beneath the staircase.
"The entrance to the storage unit is through the laundry room."
"There's an emergency coal chute that leads directly into the rear alleyway."
Roman grabbed the collar of her coat, hauling her to her feet with one arm while keeping his pistol aimed at the stairwell.
"Miller, hold the front entrance!" Roman ordered.
"Call in the secondary team from the perimeter!"
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"We extract through the alley!"
Roman kicked the basement door open, the old wood splintering against the frame, and pulled Khloe down into the pitch-black descent of the subterranean corridor.
