Chapter 3 - THE BLEEDING KING
Z
The servant tunnels of the Costanza estate were a labyrinth of damp stone and narrow wooden staircases, originally built during the Prohibition era by Vincent’s grandfather to smuggle liquor. For the past three years, they had been my sanctuary, my quiet shortcut to avoid the towering, intimidating men who guarded the halls. Tonight, they were our only lifeline. The sounds of heavy boots and muffled shouting bled through the walls from above, a terrifying reminder that Julian’s men were tearing the house apart looking for us. Every time Vincent stumbled, his heavy frame threatening to pull us both down the stone steps, my heart leaped into my throat. But we couldn't stop. Not yet.
"Left," I whispered, guiding him blindly through the suffocating darkness. "There's an old cellar door at the end of this corridor. It leads out to the eastern woods."
Vincent was deteriorating fast. His breathing sounded like wet paper tearing, and the sheer weight of him was burning my muscles. He was a large man, built like a fortress, but a .45 caliber bullet cares nothing for architecture. "My... my keys," he gasped, his uninjured hand fumbling weakly at his blood-soaked trousers. "In my pocket. Black SUV... hidden in the old carriage house. Take it."
"We are taking it," I corrected fiercely, shoving my hand into his pocket and retrieving the cold metal fob. I wasn't leaving him to die in the dirt. My survival, my anonymity, my fragile peace in this dangerous world had been entirely dependent on Vincent Costanza remaining in power. With Julian taking over, anyone connected to Vincent would be hunted down, tortured, and erased. If I wanted to live, I needed the king to stay alive long enough to fight his own war.
We burst through the cellar door into the biting, torrential rain. The cold water felt like a shock to the system, washing away the smell of dust and blood for a fleeting second. The night was pitch black, the storm howling through the ancient pine trees that surrounded the estate, masking the sounds of our desperate flight. I dragged Vincent through the mud, slipping and sliding, my black maid’s uniform clinging to my skin like a second layer of terror. The carriage house was a hundred yards away, an abandoned stone structure at the edge of the property line.
By the time we reached the heavy wooden doors, Vincent was practically unconscious. I shoved the door open, the rusted hinges screaming in protest, and dragged him inside. The black, armored SUV sat in the center, a beautiful, menacing beast waiting in the shadows. I hauled him into the passenger seat, his head lolling against the window, his face the color of spoiled milk. I jumped into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and started the engine. The V8 roared to life, a deep, guttural growl that felt like the sweetest music I had ever heard.
I didn't turn on the headlights. I relied entirely on the occasional flash of lightning to navigate the overgrown dirt road that led away from the main gates, tearing through the woods and bursting onto the slick, empty highway. I pushed the accelerator to the floor, the heavy vehicle hydroplaning slightly as we merged into the darkness of the interstate. Only then did I finally let out a breath I felt like I had been holding for an hour.
But the relief was incredibly short-lived. I glanced at Vincent. His eyes were closed, his chest barely rising. "Vincent," I snapped, slapping his knee. "Vincent, stay with me. You can't die in my passenger seat."
His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused. "Who are you?" he slurred, his voice barely audible over the roaring engine and drumming rain. "Micah... is that even your name?"
"It’s the name I use," I replied, keeping my eyes glued to the dark road. "Where is your safe house? The one Julian doesn't know about. I know you have one."
He let out a weak, rattling laugh. "Smart girl. Too smart to be scrubbing floors. Address is... 442... North Point... industrial park. Unit 7." His head rolled back again. "You shoot... like a cartel sicario. Who taught you?"
"My father," I said, the memory tasting like ash in my mouth. "He cleaned up messes for the Juarez cartel. Just like I clean for you. Until they decided he knew too much. He taught me to shoot so I wouldn't end up in a mass grave with him."
Vincent stared at me through the dim, green glow of the dashboard lights, a profound realization settling over his pain-contorted features. He saw me not as the quiet girl who dusted his books, but as a survivor, a creature forged in the same brutal fires of the underworld that he was.
"You're bleeding out," I noted coldly, glancing at the dark stain expanding across his chest. "If the bullet clipped an artery, you're dead in twenty minutes. If it didn't, you might survive if I can get the lead out."
"You... you know how to operate?" he whispered, his eyes sliding shut again.
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"I know how to dig things out of flesh without hitting anything important," I said, my voice hardening. "It’s going to hurt like hell, Costanza. But you need to stay awake. Julian thinks he’s won. Are you going to let a dead man steal your throne?"
That sparked something. A dark, terrifying fire ignited in Vincent's fading eyes. The mob boss, the ruthless leader of the Boston syndicate, clawed his way back from the brink of unconsciousness, fueled entirely by pure, unadulterated hatred. "No," he snarled, the word laced with blood and venom. "Drive faster."
