Chapter 3 - The Chamber of Ghosts
The air that poured out from behind the mahogany bookcase smelled of dust, wet lime, and old lavender—the scent his sister used to wear when she was nineteen years old.
Roman pulled the bookcase wider. It swung on heavy steel hinges built directly into the load-bearing brick of the manor. Behind it lay a narrow, spiraling stone staircase that descended into the darkness between the inner wall of his study and the outer masonry of the mansion.
He pulled a small tactical flashlight from his pocket, clicked it on, and stepped into the abyss.
"Dominic will be here in three minutes," Roman told Mia over his shoulder. "Stay beside your mother."
The stone steps were slick with moisture. The fog from the river had seeped through the ancient brickwork over decades, leaving patches of black mold along the descent. Roman lowered his head, his broad frame barely fitting through the narrow gap.
He went down twenty steps, reaching the space directly behind the dining room fireplace, before the staircase leveled off into a small, windowless chamber.
The room was no bigger than a prison cell.
It was furnished with a narrow iron cot, a small wooden table, a stack of yellowed paperback books, and a battery-powered radio that was currently humming with static. In the corner sat an old record player, its needle resting on a worn vinyl record that had long stopped spinning.
On the cot sat a woman.
She was wrapped in a faded velvet blanket. Her hair was stark white—not the gray of natural aging, but the bleached, ghostly white of someone who had not seen a single ray of sunlight in over a decade. Her skin was translucent, so thin that Roman could see the blue veins tracing across her temples.
She lifted her hands to shield her eyes from the bright beam of Roman's flashlight. Her fingers were thin, bone-pale, and scarred at the tips.
"Victor?" her voice came out as a fragile, croaking whisper. "Is that you, Victor? It's... it's not time for the tray yet..."
Roman dropped the flashlight beam to the floor. The light reflected softly off the stone flags, illuminating his broad face, his dark eyes, and the tailored wool of his suit.
He couldn't speak. The breath was trapped in his throat like a block of lead.
"Elena..." he breathed.
The woman froze. Her hands slowly lowered from her face. She leaned forward, her hollow, dark hazel eyes widening as she stared at the tall man standing in her cell.
"Roman?" she whispered. She shook her head violently, tears instantly carving tracks through the dust on her cheeks. "No... no, it's a dream. I'm having the dream again. Father said you were dead. He said the Morettis killed you in Providence..."
Roman took three long strides across the room and dropped to his knees before the cot. He took her tiny, freezing hands into his massive, warm palms. Her skin felt like dry parchment, trembling wildly in his grip.
"I'm alive, El," Roman choked out, his voice breaking—a sound no man in Boston had heard from Roman Duca since he was a boy. "I'm alive. I'm right here."
Elena touched his face with her scarred fingers. She traced the line of his jaw, the scar over his left eyebrow, the thick collar of his coat.
"You're warm," she sobbed, a sound of profound, crushing agony breaking from her chest. "Oh God... Roman... you're real. You're real..."
He pulled her fragile body against his chest, wrapping his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. She weighed almost nothing—less than eighty pounds. He felt every rib through her thin cotton gown.
Eleven years ago, while he was crying over a hollow casket, his father had locked his nineteen-year-old sister in a hole beneath the floorboards.
"Why?" Roman demanded, his rage rising like a tidal wave of fire beneath his skin, though he kept his physical hold on her soft and gentle. "Why did he do this to you?"
Elena clutched at his lapels, her knuckles digging into the cloth. "The ledger, Roman... Father's red ledger. I found it in his safe eleven years ago... I read what he did to mother... what he did to the family. I threatened to take it to the District Attorney. I was going to ruin him..."
She began to cough, a deep, raspy rattle that shook her frail frame.
"He couldn't kill me," she whispered when the coughing fit passed. "He was too superstitious to spill Duca blood with his own hands. So he told the family I was dead... and he put me here. Victor Vance fed me... kept me alive with pills... so Father wouldn't burn in hell for fratricide..."
Roman shut his eyes. The monstrous cruelty of Anthony Duca was legendary in the underworld, but this surpassed human comprehension. His father had turned his own home into a mausoleum, leaving his daughter to rot in the dark while Roman served as his enforcer, believing he was protecting what was left of his family.
Heavy, rapid footsteps echoed down the stone staircase behind them.
Roman instantly stood up, stepping in front of Elena, his gun drawn.
"Boss!" Dominic's voice boomed down the corridor. The massive underboss rounded the corner, holding a heavy flashlight and an assault rifle, two armed enforcers right behind him.
Dominic stopped dead in his tracks. His flashlight beam caught Elena sitting on the cot.
Dominic's mouth opened, but no words came out. He staggered back a step, crossing himself frantically. "Mother of God... Elena?"
"Dominic," Roman commanded, his voice cold, sharp, and lethal. "Help her up. Carry her upstairs. If a single soul outside this room sees her before I give the order, I will put a bullet in your head myself."
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"Yes, boss! Yes!" Dominic threw his rifle to one of his men and rushed forward, dropping to his knee with tears springing to his eyes. He stripped off his heavy leather jacket and wrapped it around the shivering woman. "Little Elena... sweet Jesus... we buried you..."
"She's alive," Roman said, stepping toward the stairs. "And the men who did this are going to bleed out on Mount Vernon Street before the sun comes up."
