Chapter 2 - The Armor of the Romano
Glass rained down like frozen tears across the floor of the trauma suite.
Marco acted instantly. He slammed his massive body into me and Logan, shielding us with his Kevlar-lined coat as a spray of automatic fire punched clean holes through the drywall above our heads.
"Breach! South hallway!" Marco roared into his shoulder mic, drawing a second firearm from a shoulder holster. "Get the Boss out through the freight elevator!"
Alessandro didn't flinch. As bullets tore through the delicate medical monitors, sending sparks and plastic flying, he reached down, grabbed me by the elbow with an iron grip, and hoisted me to my feet.
"Hold the boy," Alessandro ordered into my ear, his voice steady amidst the deafening chaos. "If you drop him, you die. If you run from me, you die. Stay in my shadow!"
"They're shooting at a hospital!" I screamed, shielding Logan’s head under my canvas jacket as Marco and two other guards returned fire, lay-down suppressive shots into the smoke-filled corridor.
"They aren't shooting at a hospital," Alessandro replied smoothly, pulling a sleek black pistol from a hidden drawer beneath the crash cart. "They are executing a corporate restructuring. Move!"
We scrambled through a hidden service door at the back of the suite, entering a dark, narrow utility stairwell that smelled of dust and damp concrete. Down below, heavy, rhythmic footsteps were echoing up the iron steps—the syndicate’s strike team was sweeping the building from the bottom up.
"Up to the helipad!" Alessandro commanded.
"Boss, your wounds—" Marco began, his face pale as fresh blood soaked through Alessandro’s hospital gown.
"I will die when I decide to die, Marco," Alessandro growled. "Move!"
We took the stairs three at a time. My lungs burned; my legs felt like lead. Logan didn't scream; he buried his face into the nook of my neck, his small body rigid with sheer terror.
"Mommy," he whimpered softly. "Is the bad noise going away?"
"Yes, baby," I lied through gasped breaths, pressing my mouth against his soft hair. "Mommy’s got you. Keep your eyes closed."
We burst through the heavy reinforced door onto the rooftop helipad. The night air hit us like a physical blow—cold, rain-slicked, and smelling of jet fuel. A sleek, matte-black AgustaWestland helicopter was idling on the pad, its twin rotors spinning into a blur, cutting through the thick Baltimore fog.
From the stairwell behind us, the metal door flew open. Three men clad in tactical gear and night-vision goggles burst onto the roof, their weapons raised.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Alessandro didn't hesitate. Without even fully turning his body, he fired three precise shots over his shoulder. The tactical operatives collapsed onto the wet gravel, their weapons clattering uselessly against the deck.
"In!" Alessandro shouted, shoving me toward the open bay door of the aircraft.
I scrambled inside, pulling Logan into my lap as Marco slammed the armored sliding door shut. The helicopter rose instantly into the night sky, tilting sharply as the city of Baltimore shrank into a twinkling grid of rain-blurred streetlights below.
Inside the cabin, the noise of the engine was deafening. Alessandro sank heavily into a leather seat across from me. He reached down and opened a metallic medical box stored beneath the bench, pulling out a suture kit and a bottle of high-proof liquor without missing a beat.
He uncorked the bottle with his teeth, poured half of it directly over his bleeding chest wounds, and didn't utter a single sound as his flesh sizzled.
I stared at him in sheer horror and fascination. "You're a monster."
Alessandro set the bottle down, picked up a curved needle, and began stitching his own skin with terrifying precision.
"I am a survivor, Catherine," he said without looking up. "Your husband understood that distinction. That is why he came to me instead of his handlers at the FBI when he realized he had been compromised."
"If David was working with you... why did he leave us?" I demanded, tears streaming down my face as Logan finally fell into an exhausted, trauma-induced sleep in my lap. "We had no money! I was working sixty hours a week cleaning floors! I couldn't buy him brand-name shoes! I couldn't even pay our heating bill last winter!"
Alessandro paused his needle. He looked up, his gray eyes softening by a fraction of a degree—an expression so subtle it was almost invisible.
"David left three million dollars in an offshore escrow account in Zurich, indexed under Logan’s full name," Alessandro revealed quietly. "It was meant to be released to you on his fifth birthday, along with new identities and passports to take you to New Zealand."
My heart stopped. "What?"
"The drunk driver who killed 'David' was a dead body procured from a county morgue, placed in David’s car, and incinerated," Alessandro continued. "David was supposed to be extracted to Europe the following morning. But someone leaked his real identity to the Syndicate’s upper council. He was captured forty-eight hours after the staged crash."
I gripped Logan so hard my knuckles turned white. "Is he... is David dead?"
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Alessandro pulled the suture thread tight, snip-cutting the knot with a small pair of shears. He met my eyes with an unwavering gaze.
"Until six hours ago, I believed he was," Alessandro said. "But the men who ambushed my motorcade tonight weren't using Syndicate weapons. They were using federal tactical gear. Your husband didn't die in that interrogation cell two years ago, Catherine. He made another deal."
