Chapter 4 - The House on Federal Hill
Ambrose did not yell or panic.
He pulled a dark semi-automatic pistol from beneath his overcoat and fired two deafening rounds directly through the SUV’s front radiator grill.
Steam hissed violently from the shattered engine block as the vehicle swerved wildly, smashing into a concrete dumpster before coming to a halt.
“Otis, take the back route through the quarry,” Ambrose yelled over the engine roar.
The transport van tires squealed on the wet asphalt, carrying Miles away into the rainy night.
Ambrose grabbed Rosalind by the waist and threw her into the sedan before diving in behind her.
Otis floored the gas pedal, throwing the car into the street just as two men climbed out of the wrecked SUV with assault rifles raised.
Bullets peppered the rear trunk of the sedan, ricocheting off the armored steel with sharp metallic clangs.
Rosalind pressed her face into the leather seat, her ears ringing from the gunfire.
The car tore through the empty city streets, running red lights until the noise of the docks faded behind them.
They climbed the winding, tree-lined roads toward Federal Hill, where ancient stone mansions hid behind ten-foot wrought-iron fences.
The sedan swept through heavy security gates that closed immediately behind them.
The estate house was an imposing three-story manor built from gray granite, surrounded by security cameras and floodlights.
Otis stepped out and opened Rosalind’s door with a white-gloved hand.
“Welcome to the Raldi residence, Miss Halloway.”
He paused, his eyes lingering on the gold band on her left finger.
“In thirty-one years of driving for this family, this is only the second time that ring has ever left Mister Raldi’s pocket.”
Rosalind looked up at the old driver.
“Who wore it first?”
Otis did not answer; he simply extended an umbrella over her head and guided her up the stone steps.
Inside, the house smelled of beeswax, old leather books, and polished mahogany.
A man in his early sixties sat by a roaring fireplace in the library, wearing a dark cashmere sweater and holding a silver fountain pen over an open ledger.
“Good morning, Ambrose,” the older man said, his voice cultured and slow.
“You cut it dangerously close tonight.”
“Wendel Pike,” Ambrose introduced curtly.
“He handles the accounts and the secrets that keep this family alive.”
Pike stood up, bowed slightly to Rosalind, and poured three glasses of amber brandy from a crystal decanter.
“Please sit, Miss Halloway.”
Pike rested his hands on his knees, studying her face with unsettling intensity.
“Before we discuss your safety, I need three technical answers about your father’s workshop.”
“First, did Warren bind his historical restorations by hand or with an iron press?”
Rosalind swallowed, clutching her glass.
“Entirely by hand.”
“He carved his own bone folders and mixed his own wheat starch paste.”
“Second,” Pike continued without shifting his gaze.
“Did he ever accept private commissions containing hidden compartments within the leather spines?”
Rosalind’s throat tightened.
“Only for three clients in his entire life.”
“Third,” Pike said softly, leaning closer.
“What became of his finishing tools after the fire?”
“Nothing survived,” Rosalind said, her voice trembling.
“Everything melted in the heat.”
Pike stared at her for several seconds before opening a hidden steel drawer beneath the desk.
He lifted out a scorched iron box and laid it on the polished wood.
Inside lay an ancient, soot-blackened leather volume with its spine held together by twisted copper wire.
“Your father did not die because someone wanted him dead, Rosalind.”
May you like
Pike opened the burned cover, revealing pages filled with handwritten ciphers.
“He died because he bound this book, and you are the only person on earth who knows how to open its spine without destroying the list of traitors inside.”
