Chapter 2 - The Ashes of Pier 44
The morning sun did little to melt the frozen slush piled against the exterior walls of St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital. Inside, the antiseptic smell was thick, mingling with the faint, comforting scent of black coffee my driver had managed to bring from an all-night diner down the block.
I sat in the stiff plastic chair beside Delia Marie Marlowe’s hospital bed. Her breath came in shallow, measured hitches, each one a reminder of the blows she had taken from Celeste Vandermark’s manicured hands. The heavy white gauze taped to her temple starkly contrasted with her dark, observant eyes—eyes that held a history I had been too blind, too consumed by my own ruthless empire, to notice for two whole years.
"Ewan wasn't just a brother to you, Mr. Moretti," Delia began, her voice raspy, fighting through the pain of bruised ribs. "He was a man who carried a ledger in his head. Everyone thought he died in the explosion at Pier 44 because the authorities found his charred signet ring in the ruins. But rings can be slipped off. Files can be swapped."
My jaw tightened. The fire at Pier 44 six years ago had been the defining tragedy of my life. It was the night my younger brother, the only person who still tried to bring light into our family’s dark world, was supposedly incinerated beyond recognition. The organization had blamed a rival syndicate, and I had spent the next six years avenging that ghost, systematically dismantling every crew on the North Side.
"Go on," I said, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous register.
"Ewan didn't want to take over the docks," Delia continued, shifting slightly against the pillows, wincing as her bruised shoulder brushed the fabric. "He wanted out. But your mother’s inner circle—and Celeste’s family—had already tied their financial futures to the syndicate’s offshore accounts. Ewan discovered that the fire at Pier 44 wasn't an attack by a rival gang. It was an inside job orchestrated to wipe out the compliance audits Ewan had compiled against the core leadership."
She paused, swallowing hard before looking straight into my eyes.
"Celeste was there that night, Mr. Moretti. She was nineteen, but she was already sitting in the boardrooms with her father. She watched them set the charge. And when Ewan managed to crawl out through the lower drainage tunnels, badly burned and losing his memory from smoke inhalation, Celeste was the one who tracked him down three days later at a county clinic."
The room seemed to shrink. The monitors' rhythmic blinking sounded like a ticking clock counting down to an explosion.
"She didn't kill him then," Delia whispered, her hands gripping the thin hospital blanket. "She hid him. She kept him locked away in a private care facility under an alias, feeding him heavy sedatives to keep his memories from returning. But two years ago, when the facility was sold and slated for demolition, she panicked. She didn't know what to do with him. So, she smuggled him into your own estate, disguised him in a heavy medical cloak, and placed him right under your nose."
A cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck.
"Under my nose?" I echoed, my chest tightening. "Where?"
"In the basement annex, Mr. Moretti," Delia said, tears finally spilling over her lashes. "The one locked with the biometric scanner that only your mother and Celeste have access to. He’s been living down there for four years. He can't speak clearly anymore—the smoke and the drugs destroyed his vocal cords. That’s why I took this job as your mother’s night nurse. I found out what Celeste was doing, and I traded my silence for access to the annex, just so I could keep him alive, feed him real food, and make sure he didn't die in the dark."
The pieces violently snapped together. The faint, unidentifiable noises I had occasionally heard through the floor vents late at night. The extra meal portions that always seemed to disappear from the kitchen refrigerator. The way Celeste had fiercely insisted on managing the estate’s downstairs service wing herself, forbidding even the senior housekeepers from entering.
My brother wasn't dead. He had been breathing beneath my feet for four years, kept prisoner by the woman I was scheduled to marry in three weeks.
I stood up so fast the plastic chair screeched against the linoleum.
"Where is she?" I asked, my voice devoid of any human warmth.
May you like
"She’s at the estate," Delia answered softly. "Preparing for the bridal fitting with your mother’s legal team. And she knows you found out. That’s why she tried to silence me last night."
I didn't answer. I turned on my heel and walked out of the room, leaving my driver with strict instructions to surround the hospital with six armed guards.
