Chapter 2 - Shadows in the North End
By two o'clock in the morning, the neon sign of L’Hermitage was dark. The streets of the North End were slick with a light coastal fog that rolled off the harbor, swallowing the brick alleyways in silence.
Hannah walked fast, her comfortable rubber-soled work shoes clicking softly against the cobblestones. She held her jacket tightly around her waist, her purse tucked securely under her arm. She lived six blocks away in a small, third-floor walk-up above an old bakery—a place where the rent was cheap because the stairs creaked and the pipes hummed a mournful tune every time the city pressure spiked.
She knew she was being followed. She had known since she crossed Hanover Street.
Two men were trailing her at a distance of fifty yards. They weren't trying to hide—their heavy leather jackets and wide, deliberate strides broadcasted their presence like a foghorn. But they weren't Moretti men. Moretti men wore tailored suits and moved like shadows. These men moved like bricks dropped into a bucket.
Hannah reached the alley leading to her apartment entrance, slipped her key between her knuckles, and turned around sharply.
"If you're going to mug me," she called out into the fog, her voice ringing clear, "you should know I only have forty-two dollars in cash and a half-eaten cannoli in my bag."
The two men stepped out of the mist. The taller one had a broken nose and a jagged scar cutting through his left eyebrow—Sal "The Hammer" Rizzoli, a mid-level enforcer for the Scalisi family, the long-standing rivals who had been quietly probing the edges of the Moretti territory ever since Eleanor’s husband died six years ago.
"We don't want your cash, sweetheart," Sal growled, his voice sounding like gravel being crushed in a cement mixer. "We want to know what you were talking about with the Old Lady tonight."
Hannah didn't retreat an inch. "We were discussing the poor quality of the arborio rice."
Sal stepped closer, his shadow looming over her. "Don't play cute with me, fat girl. You sat at Eleanor Moretti's table for an hour. Donny Moretti buy you a drink? Or did the Old Lady hire you to carry messages?"
Hannah’s eyes flashed with a sudden, cold fury that had nothing to do with fear. "First of all, my hips are none of your business. Second of all, if I were carrying messages for Eleanor Moretti, do you really think I’d be walking home alone through a dark alley at two in the morning?"
Sal reached out a heavy, leather-gloved hand to grab her shoulder. "You're coming with us. Mr. Scalisi wants to ask you a few questions about what the Morettis are planning for the waterfront docks."
Before Sal’s fingers could touch her coat, a shadow detached itself from the doorway behind her.
A hand—encased in a black leather driving glove—shot out from the dark, grabbed Sal’s wrist, and twisted it downward with a sickening CRACK.
Sal screamed, dropping to his knees on the damp cobblestones.
Dominic Moretti stepped into the faint orange glow of the streetlamp. He didn't look winded. He didn't look angry. He looked like an executive who had just been interrupted during a dull meeting.
Behind him, Marco appeared out of nowhere, slamming the second Scalisi thug against the brick wall with a dull THUD, disarming him before the man could even pull his weapon.
"Rizzoli," Dominic said smoothly, looking down at the kneeling man whose wrist was bent at an impossible angle. "You're on my street. Touching a woman who works in my district."
"Moretti..." Sal gasped through gritted teeth, sweat pouring down his face. "She's just a waitress... she ain't family... she ain't protected..."
Dominic stepped on Sal’s kneecap, applying just enough pressure to make the man whimper. "Everything in this parish is protected by me, Sal. Especially people who treat my mother with respect."
Dominic looked over at Hannah, who was standing against the doorframe, her breath hitching slightly, though her hands remained steady.
"Are you hurt, Miss Brooks?" Dominic asked.
"No," Hannah said, adjusting her jacket. "Though your timing is a bit theatrical. I had my keys ready."
Dominic glanced at her hand, noticing the silver house key protruding between her knuckles. A subtle look of respect flickered across his dark eyes. "A key between the fingers inflicts superficial damage, Miss Brooks. It rarely stops a two-hundred-pound man."
"It stops him long enough for me to kick him in the shins and run," she countered evenly.
Dominic chuckled—a sound as rich and dark as black coffee. He turned back to Sal, his voice dropping into ice. "Get up, Sal. Walk back to Frank Scalisi. Tell him that if I see any of his trash on Hanover Street again, I won't break wrists. I’ll break empires."
Marco kicked the second thug toward the alley mouth. The two Scalisi men scrambled away into the fog, dragging their injured limbs like beaten dogs.
Silence returned to the alley. Dominic straightened his silk tie, turned to face Hannah, and pulled a thick leather folder from under his arm.
"Your background check came back, Hannah," Dominic said quietly, dropping the formal 'Miss Brooks' for the first time.
Hannah’s jaw set into a hard line. "And? Did you find any unpaid parking tickets?"
"No," Dominic replied, stepping closer until he was standing right in front of her. "I found out that five years ago, a brilliant third-year pediatric resident at Boston General named Hannah Brooks surrendered her medical license, withdrew her life savings, and disappeared into a diner in the North End after her younger brother was framed for a pharmaceutical theft ring run by... Frank Scalisi."
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Hannah felt the cold ground beneath her feet sway slightly. The secret she had buried beneath five years of double shifts, grease-stained aprons, and quiet nights had just been laid bare on a damp street corner by the most dangerous man in Boston.
"You didn't quit medicine because you wanted to serve pasta, Hannah," Dominic whispered, his ocean-blue eyes pinning her to the spot. "You quit because you were waiting for the right moment to tear Frank Scalisi’s throat out."
