Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Basement
The black town car tore through the snow-slicked streets of the South Side, eating up the miles between the hospital and the Moretti estate. My mind wasn't on anger anymore; it was a cold, laser-focused void. The kind of clarity that only comes when a man realizes his entire existence has been built on a foundation of orchestrated lies.
When the wrought-iron gates swung open, the grand mansion looked majestic and serene against the winter sky, completely untouched by the poison rotting its core.
I didn't use the front entrance.
Instead, I bypassed the grand foyer, walked around to the side service courtyard, and descended the rusted iron stairs leading down to the lower utility wing. The air down here was damp, smelling of old concrete, heating oil, and damp earth.
I reached the heavy steel door of the annex—the one secured by a high-end digital biometric scanner.
Celeste hadn't changed the security codes. She thought she had won. She thought Delia was safely out of the picture at the hospital, and that I was still too blind to look beneath the surface.
I pressed my thumb against the glass reader.
BEEP.
A green light flashed, and the heavy hydraulic locks disengaged with a dull, pneumatic hiss.
I pushed the door open.
The room beyond was narrow, dimly lit by a single flickering fluorescent bulb overhead. It was furnished like a rudimentary hospital room: an iron cot, a small wooden table with a half-eaten bowl of soup, and a shelf lined with worn medical journals.
Sitting on the edge of the cot, wrapped in a faded gray wool blanket, was a man.
His hair was stark white, his face etched with deep scars from burns that stretched from his jawline down beneath the collar of his shirt. He looked up as the door creaked open, blinking against the harsh light, his eyes wide and hollow.
"Ewan?" I breathed, my voice breaking for the first time in six years.
The man flinched at the sound. He raised a trembling, scarred hand to his throat, trying to speak, but only a dry, rattling rasp emerged from his damaged vocal cords. He slid backward against the cold concrete wall, terror flashing in his eyes.
"It's okay," I whispered, dropping to my knees as I crossed the room, ignoring the dust and grit on the floor. I reached out slowly, stopping just short of touching his shoulder so as not to frighten him. "It’s me. It’s your brother."
Ewan stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. Then, slowly, the fear in his eyes began to recede, replaced by a profound, overwhelming wave of recognition. He reached out with both hands, gripping my forearms with a desperate, crushing strength, as if verifying that I wasn't just another hallucination conjured by the sedatives.
"They... they said..." Ewan managed to wheeze out, his voice sounding like dry leaves scraping across pavement. "They said... you forgot me."
"I never forgot you, brother," I said, my jaw clenching as hot, suffocating fury surged back into my veins. "And the people who put you here are going to pay for every single day you spent in this hell."
As I helped Ewan stand up, wrapping my overcoat around his frail shoulders, the heavy security door behind us clicked open again.
May you like
Footsteps echoed softly down the concrete corridor.
I stepped in front of Ewan, my hand resting calmly on the grip of the Sig Sauer tucked into my belt holster, and turned to face the doorway.
