Chapter 3 - THE APRON FALLS
Gunfire shredded the heavy walnut door.
Phut-phut-phut-phut!
Splinters exploded into the air like shrapnel.
Sloan didn't duck.
He lunged forward.
His massive body slammed into Delphine, driving her to the floor beneath him.
He arched his back, creating a human shield over her and her swollen belly.
A bullet grazed the shoulder of his Italian wool coat.
The smell of burnt fabric and blood filled the small space.
Bishop returned fire instantly.
Two deafening booms from a heavy-caliber revolver echoed off the walls.
The shooter in the hallway collapsed backward, crashing into a cart of crystal stemware.
The glass shattered in a cascade of sharp chimes.
Sirens wailed in the distance, screaming through the Boston drizzle.
On the floor, Del’s cheek was pressed against the cold floorboards.
Sloan’s heavy weight pressed down on her, warm and solid.
His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped beast.
He pushed himself up slowly, his gray eyes burning directly into hers.
“Are you hit?” he demanded.
His hands were frantic, skimming over her shoulders, her neck, her ribs.
“I'm fine,” Del gasped, struggling for air. “Get off me, Sloan.”
His hands paused at the rounded swell of her stomach.
He went completely still.
His fingers curled, hovering an inch above the stretched cotton of her uniform.
A kick answered from within.
A sharp, distinct flutter.
Sloan flinched as if he had been shot.
“Whose child is that?”
His voice was terrifyingly low.
“Not yours,” Del lied without hesitation.
Her heart leaped into her throat.
Three years ago, she had walked out into the winter rain with ten dollars and a positive pregnancy test in her pocket.
She had spent three years cleaning grease and carrying trays to keep this child off the Marchetti family tree.
Sloan’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.
“You disappeared thirty-six months ago,” Sloan growled. “You’ve been pregnant for seven.”
He leaned closer.
His breath brushed her ear.
“Do not lie to me on this floor, Delphine.”
Paramedics burst through the ruined doorway, led by two of Sloan’s perimeter guards.
“Clear the room! We need room for the stretcher!”
Del pushed Sloan away with both hands.
Her hands came away slick with his blood.
“Your sister needs a hospital,” Del said, scrambling to her feet. “And you need stitches.”
Sloan stood up, towering over the room once more.
He ignored the blood soaking his sleeve.
He looked at Bishop.
“Put Cora in the ambulance. Escort them with four cars to Saint Jude’s.”
“Yes, boss,” Bishop said.
“What about the shooter?” Bishop asked, gesturing toward the corpse in the hallway.
Sloan didn't look at the dead man.
His eyes never left Delphine.
“Check his coat. If he’s wearing a Moretti ring or a Lucian crest, bring me his phone.”
The paramedics loaded Cora onto the gurney.
Her breathing was steady now, thanks to the double dose of epinephrine.
As they wheeled her out, Del tried to follow the crowd into the busy restaurant kitchen.
She wanted the alley.
She wanted the subway.
She wanted to vanish into the dark city before he remembered what she had taken from him.
A heavy hand clamped around her wrist.
Iron fingers.
Warm.
Familiar.
Unforgiving.
“You’re not running this time, Del,” Sloan said quietly.
She turned, her chin held high, defying the tremble in her knees.
“I have a shift to finish, Mr. Marchetti.”
Sloan looked down at the puddle of spilled water, the shattered crystal, and the blood on his cuffs.
“You don't work here anymore,” Sloan said.
He reached into his pocket and dropped a heavy gold lighter and a roll of hundred-dollar bills onto the table.
“Pack your things in the locker room. You have two minutes before I carry you out.”
Del pulled against his grip.
He didn't budge.
“You have no right to touch me,” she hissed. “We signed the separation papers.”
Sloan’s eyes darkened to the color of storm clouds over the Atlantic.
“I never filed them,” he whispered.
Del felt the floor tilt beneath her feet.
“What?”
“You are still my wife, Delphine,” Sloan said, leaning down until his lips almost brushed her temple. “And whatever you’re carrying belongs to this family.”
A phone in the hallway began to ring.
Bishop appeared in the doorway, holding a burner phone plucked from the dead shooter’s pocket.
His face was grim.
“Sloan,” Bishop said softly.
“Speak.”
May you like
“The caller ID on the dead man's phone... it’s coming from inside your mother’s estate.”
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