Chapter 1 - The Echo of the Past
I stood perfectly still in the dimly lit hallway of the Queens apartment building.
My hand hovered just inches from the peeling paint of the wooden door.
Inside, Elena had just whispered my name to her daughter with a voice full of absolute terror.
I finally knocked, three sharp raps that sounded like gunshots in the quiet corridor.
The coughing inside stopped immediately.
I heard the heavy deadbolt slide back, and the door creaked open just a fraction of an inch.
Elena Russo looked through the gap, her face pale and her cheekbones sharp from severe illness.
Her gray-green eyes widened in complete shock as she recognized the man standing on her welcome mat.
She tried to slam the door shut, but I shoved my heavy Italian leather shoe into the frame.
I pushed my way inside, closing and locking the door behind me before she could scream.
The apartment was tiny, smelling of cheap chicken soup and heavy medical antiseptic.
The little girl in the yellow dress was standing by the couch, clutching the pharmacy bag she had retrieved three days ago.
She looked at me, tilting her head with a familiar, stubborn expression.
"You are the man who fell down," the little girl said, completely unafraid of my presence.
Elena pulled the child behind her, shielding her with her frail body as if I were a monster.
I demanded to know why she had disappeared seven years ago without leaving a single word behind.
Elena laughed bitterly, her chest rattling with a deep, unhealthy wheeze that made me wince.
She told me that my own father had visited her the night I proposed, offering her a choice between disappearing quietly or taking a bullet to the head.
My blood ran cold at the horrific realization that my family had intentionally stolen my future.
Before I could offer a single word of apology, the front door violently rattled on its hinges.
Someone began kicking the wood with massive force, splintering the frame around the deadbolt lock.
Elena grabbed my arm, her eyes wide with absolute, uncontrolled panic.
"They found us," she whispered, pulling a small, rusted kitchen knife from her apron pocket.
"Who found you?" I demanded, drawing my own concealed weapon from my shoulder holster.
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The door crashed open, revealing three massive men wearing the colors of the Roman cartel.
And the man leading them into the apartment was Marco Bianchi, my own trusted underboss.
