Chapter 2 - The Siege of the Fourth Floor
The echo of the three gunshots from the corridor had barely faded before the heavy oak door of Room 412 rattled violently against its frame. Someone outside was attempting to force the electronic card lock, unaware that Elena Cruz had rammed the thick metal base of her industrial cleaning cart directly beneath the interior handle, wedging it tight.
Gabriel Moretti did not hesitate. His movements were a blur of cold, practiced lethality. He reached out with his left hand, grabbing Elena’s shoulder—not to harm her, but to pull her down behind the reinforced concrete partition that housed the room’s oxygen and vacuum lines.
"Get down," Gabriel commanded, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that brooked no argument. "Vincent, cover the threshold. If that door breaks, you clear the frame."
Elena didn't drop the broken mop handle. Even as Gabriel forced her into a crouch behind the medical column, her knuckles remained white around the splintered wood. Her blood, dripping from the split above her eyebrow, left a small, dark trail on the shoulder of Gabriel's custom-tailored charcoal suit jacket. She was terrified, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps, but there was a fierce, feral survival instinct in her eyes that fascinated the mafia boss.
"They have badges," Elena whispered fiercely, her teeth chattering from the adrenaline and the cold water that had soaked through her uniform. "The men... the ones who came in before. They had security uniforms, but they weren't our guards. I know the night shift. I know everyone who works this floor."
"They're mercenaries, Elena," Vincent Kane said from his position beside the doorframe, his twin Sig Sauer pistols raised, his eyes tracking the shadows moving beneath the crack of the door. "The Marcone family doesn't use street thugs for a hit this clean. They buy professionals."
Gabriel ignored the door for a moment, turning his entire attention to the bed. Daniel’s eyes were open now, just a fraction. The blue light of the monitor cast deep shadows across his pale, aristocratic face—a face that looked so much like his mother’s, the woman Gabriel had buried five years ago after an explosion in downtown Manhattan.
"Daniel," Gabriel said, his voice instantly shedding its granite edge, replacing it with a tenderness that no one in the New York underworld would have believed possible. He reached out and touched the boy's forehead. It was burning hot. "Papa is here. You’re safe."
"Papa..." Daniel’s voice was like dry paper rubbing together. His small fingers clutched at Gabriel’s sleeve. "The bad men... they turned off the music box."
He meant the heart monitor. He called the rhythmic beeping his music box—a trick Gabriel had used to keep him from being afraid of his countless cardiology appointments.
"The music box is back on, little man," Gabriel murmured, checking the pulse oximeter on Daniel’s finger. The oxygen saturation was rising slowly, thanks to Elena reconnecting the lines, but the heart rate was dangerously unstable, spiking toward 140 beats per minute. "Vincent, what’s the status on our backup?"
"The elevators are locked from the lobby, Boss," Vincent replied without turning his head. "Marco and Leo are holding the north stairwell, but they’re pinned down by automatic fire. Whoever organized this hit knew our standard hospital protocol. They knew we’d bring three cars, and they brought enough firepower to isolate the pediatric wing."
Gabriel’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out with his left hand, his right never leaving his son’s chest. The caller ID showed an encrypted satellite number.
"Moretti," Gabriel barked into the receiver.
"Gabriel," a smooth, cultured voice drifted through the speaker, accompanied by the faint, distant sound of classical opera playing in the background. It was Santino Marcone, the old patriarch who ruled the Brooklyn docks with a velvet glove and an iron cemetery. "I understand you’re spending the evening at Lenox Hill. A beautiful hospital. Excellent cardiac care, from what I hear."
Gabriel’s eyes turned into two slits of black ice. "If my son’s heart stops, Santino, I will not just kill you. I will dig up your ancestors and burn them to ash before the sun rises."
Santino laughed softly, a dry, rattling sound. "You always were too emotional, Gabriel. That’s why your father left the commission to your uncle before we corrected that mistake. The boy is a liability. A broken vessel. You’re tearing the five families apart to protect a ghost. Let him go. Sign over the Manhattan port authority rights to my associates outside your door, and I’ll ensure the medical staff is allowed back on the floor to save your life. Refuse... and Room 412 becomes a mausoleum."
The line went dead.
Gabriel slowly lowered the phone, his face completely expressionless. To Vincent, that look was more terrifying than an army of federal prosecutors. It meant Gabriel had decided to burn the world down.
"Elena," Gabriel said, looking down at the janitor.
She looked up, wiping blood from her eyes with her sleeve. "What?"
"Can you operate the service elevator at the back of the linen closet?"
Elena blinked, her mind racing through the schematic of the hospital floor she had cleaned every night for three years. "The service lift is key-card restricted. It goes straight down to the laundry incinerator in the basement. But the power grid for that section is on an isolated circuit. It’s manual."
"Do you have the key?"
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Elena reached into her pocket and pulled out a heavy brass ring containing half a dozen master keys and a laminated barcode badge. "I have the keys to every door on this mountain."
Gabriel stood up, pulling his heavy titanium-framed weapon from his belt. "Good. Because we aren't waiting for the police. We’re going down."
