Chapter 6
At noon, I entered the linen closet carrying clean sheets.
The key opened a narrow panel concealed behind stacked blankets.
I descended.
Lorenzo’s fever had begun.
Emma sat beside him pressing a damp cloth against his forehead.
“His face is hot.”
I checked his pulse.
Faster.
The wound dressing showed no major fresh bleeding, but fever within hours of a shooting could mean contamination, inflammatory response, or something deeper.
“We need that telephone number,” I said.
Lorenzo opened his eyes.
“Use the hard line.”
“What hard line?”
He pointed weakly beneath the table.
An old telephone was mounted near the floor, wired through the foundation.
No digital display.
No location service.
I dialed the number from the yellow card.
A woman answered on the third ring.
“You have reached a line that should not be ringing.”
“My name is Sophia Rivera.”
Silence.
“I have Lorenzo Duca.”
A chair moved on the other end.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In a room his father built.”
“Who knows?”
“My daughter. Vincent Moretti. Me.”
“Marco?”
“No.”
“Victoria?”
“No.”
The questions came cleanly.
No wasted shock.
“My name is Marisol Greene,” the woman said. “I was outside counsel to Alessandro Duca before he died. Lorenzo used me twice and disliked both experiences.”
“What do I do?”
“Keep him alive for ninety minutes.”
“That is not enough information.”
“Good. Panic has not made you agreeable.”
“I need a trauma physician.”
“I’m bringing one. I also need to know whether Lorenzo consents to my representation.”
I looked at him.
He nodded.
“He does.”
“I represent him. I do not represent you.”
“Then who does?”
“I will contact an attorney from my former office. Independent. No Duca retainer.”
“I cannot pay.”
“She works with a witness-assistance fund.”
“I am not a witness.”
Marisol paused.
“You are hiding a shot man beneath a criminal organization’s headquarters while the shooter controls the building. Let’s not argue vocabulary.”
A doctor entered the estate through the laundry-delivery gate inside a linen truck.
Dr. Nathan Webb was fifty-eight, narrow-faced, and irritated by everything except the patient.
He examined Lorenzo, replaced my dressings, administered antibiotics and fluids, and confirmed the bullet had likely missed vital organs.
“You were lucky,” he said.
Lorenzo looked at me.
“She said the same thing without sounding disappointed.”
Dr. Webb ignored him.
“You need imaging.”
“Not possible.”
“It is possible. It is inconvenient.”
“Not tonight.”
The doctor looked at Marisol.
“She did warn me he was difficult.”
“She used a different word,” Lorenzo said.
May you like
Marisol wore a camel coat over a navy suit and carried a yellow legal pad. Her dark hair was streaked with gray.
She had the steady expression of someone who had heard powerful men explain why rules should bend and remained unimpressed.
