Chapter 2 - The Ringing Phone
The cheap plastic casing of the burner phone hummed against the marble floor like a angry hornet.
Sadi’s hand hovered over it, her cracked, bleach-burned fingers trembling so violently she couldn’t press the green button. Blood slowly seeped from the fissures on her knuckles, staining the hem of her gray maid uniform.
Above her, Victor Costello didn’t move.
He stood six-foot-three in the dim light of the sconce, a silent colossus carved from iron and tailored Italian cotton. His crisp white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the shadowy edge of a dark tattoo winding up his throat. The heavy matte-black steel of his pistol rested loosely against his thigh, his grip informal, yet lethal.
His dark eyes—cold, unreadable, and sharp enough to slice glass—dropped from Sadi’s terrified face to the vibrating phone.
"Pick it up," Victor said.
His voice was a low, resonant baritone, smooth as aged cognac and cold as arctic ice. It vibrated right through the marble floor and into Sadi’s spine.
"P-please, Mr. Costello," Sadi choked out, tears breaking through her lashes and running down her pale, hollow cheeks. "I didn't mean to make noise. I'll leave. I'll clean the west wing, I'll scrub the garage, just... please don't—"
"Pick up the phone, Sadi," he commanded softly.
The fact that he knew her name sent a fresh shockwave of panic through her chest. She was nobody. She was the ghost in the gray dress who wiped down mahogany banisters after midnight and scrubbed bloodstains out of Persian rugs without ever asking where they came from.
With a shuddering breath, Sadi reached down and pressed the speaker button.
Mick O’Shea’s rasping, tobacco-stained voice cut through the quiet hallway.
"Thirty seconds left on your hour, Sadi darling," Mick chuckled. The sound of a harsh sea breeze and heavy traffic echoed behind him. "My boy Declan is standing right outside room 412. Little Sammy’s asleep. He looks real fragile, Sadi. Real easy to bump into one of those oxygen lines. Twenty thousand dollars to my wire account, or the kid stops breathing before the night shift comes on."
Sadi’s throat closed up completely. A strangled, breathless sob burst from her lips. "Mick... please... I'm begging you, give me till morning! I'll find the money, I'll sell my—"
Victor reached down.
His massive, warm hand closed over the cheap burner phone, plucking it effortlessly from Sadi’s trembling palm. He brought the phone up to his face, his expression entirely motionless, his dark eyes fixed on the weeping woman at his feet.
"Who is this?" Victor asked into the microphone.
There was a sudden, sharp pause on the other end of the line. Mick O’Shea’s breezy, arrogant tone vanished instantly, replaced by a tense, wary silence.
"Who the hell is this?" Mick growled. "This is Sadi’s private line. Put the girl back on."
"You're operating in White Plains," Victor said calmly, leaning his shoulder against the heavy oak doorframe of his office. "You're threatening a boy in a hospital bed on my territory. And you're doing it on a frequency I can track in four seconds."
A beat of total silence passed. Then Mick let out a low, disbelieving spit. "Costello? Is that... Victor Costello?"
"Declan has ten seconds to step out of St. Jude's Hospital," Victor said, his tone as casual as if he were ordering a cup of coffee. "If he is still on the fourth floor when my men reach the elevator, I will personally feed his fingers to my dogs. And then I will come for you, Mick."
"Now wait a minute, Costello!" Mick’s voice turned high and frantic. "The girl owes me sixty grand! She took a loan! Business is business—"
Victor didn't wait to hear the rest. He squeezed his fingers together.
CRACK.
The cheap burner phone shattered into plastic shards and twisted metal inside Victor's palm. He opened his hand, letting the ruined pieces rain down onto the marble floor beside Sadi.
Sadi stared at the broken phone, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard she thought her chest would burst. "Sam..." she whimpered, curling into a ball on the floor. "Oh God, Sam... he's going to hurt him..."
Victor looked down at her. The cold indifference in his eyes hadn't changed, but there was a dark, dangerous tension in the set of his broad shoulders.
"Get up," Victor said.
"Mr. Costello, please, my brother—"
"I said get up, Sadi." He reached down, grabbing her by her upper arm. His grip was firm, unyielding, but surprisingly careful not to pinch her skin. He hauled her effortlessly to her feet.
Sadi swayed, her light frame feeling almost weightless against his towering height. Up close, he smelled of cedarwood, rich tobacco, and the faint, bitter scent of gun oil.
Victor glanced down at her hands. The raw, bleeding cracks on her knuckles were glaringly obvious against the white linen of his shirt sleeves.
His jaw tightened. A single muscle twitched near his ear.
"Dominic!" Victor barked toward the dark hallway.
Out of the shadows stepped Dominic Rossi, Victor’s chief of security—a heavy-set man with a scarred face and a silver suppressed pistol already resting in his shoulder holster.
"Boss?" Dominic asked quietly.
"Take two cars to St. Jude’s. Fourth floor, oncology wing," Victor ordered, his voice dropping into a lethal register. "Find a man named Declan. Bring him to the docks. If he touches the boy, kill him where he stands."
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Dominic didn't ask questions. He simply nodded once. "Understood, Boss."
"Wait," Victor added, his dark eyes cutting toward Sadi, who was staring at him in utter disbelief. "Have Dr. Mercer prepare the private suite on the top floor of the Costello Medical Wing. We are moving the Hayes boy tonight."
