A lean man in his late fifties with round wire-rimmed glasses and a worn leather medical satchel entered, introducing himself as Dr. Markov. He was gentle, efficient, and spoke very little, cleaning the jagged cut across Aliyah’s palm with surgical precision before applying liquid stitches and a sterile, waterproof bandage.
“You were lucky,” Markov noted in a thick accent, packing his instruments away. “Half an inch lower and the broken glass would have severed the superficial palmar arch. You would have bled out on the floorboards of that tavern.”
Aliyah looked down at her clean, white bandage.
Beside the sink rested the linen handkerchief Victor had used to wrap her wound. Irina had already washed it, pressing the damp cloth flat against a silver tray. The blood was gone, but the pale blue embroidery of the letter E stood out like an indelible brand against the white fabric.
“Dr. Markov,” Aliyah asked quietly as the physician buttoned his coat. “How long have you worked for Mr. Malenkov?”
Markov paused, his hand resting on his satchel. His eyes softened with a mixture of sadness and deep respect.
“Thirty years, Miss Brooks. I served his father before him.”
“Did you know her?” Aliyah touched the corner of the handkerchief. “Elena?”
Markov’s shoulders went rigid. He glanced nervously toward the open door leading to the corridor, as if the mere mention of her name might summon a tempest.
“Elena was an angel,” Markov whispered, his voice trembling slightly. “Gentle. Beautiful. She played the cello for the Boston Symphony. The Boss… he worshipped the ground her slippers touched. When she walked into a room, Victor’s face looked like a boy who had just seen the sun for the first time.”
The doctor looked at Aliyah, his gaze lingering on her dark eyes, her stubborn posture, the unyielding pride in her stance.
“When the bomb went off outside that restaurant twelve years ago,” Markov continued, “Victor spent three days digging through the rubble with his bare hands, looking for her wedding ring. When he found it, his soul stayed in that ash. Since that night, no woman has crossed the threshold of this house. No music has played in these halls.”
Markov took a step closer, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper.
“Whatever you saw in him tonight, Miss Brooks… be careful. The Boss is a man who has lived in hell for twelve years. If you give him hope… and then try to take it away… he will tear this city apart to keep from going back into the dark.”
Before Aliyah could process the doctor’s warning, Markov bowed his head and slipped out into the hallway.
Left alone in the cavernous suite, the silence pressed against Aliyah’s temples. She walked to the window, pulling the heavy velvet drapes aside. Down in the courtyard below, black sedans were arriving in steady formation. Armed men were setting up tactical perimeters, checking weapons beneath the yellow arc lights.
A war was brewing. A war sparked by a broken bowl of soup and an accidental touch.
Unable to stay trapped inside the room, Aliyah pulled the cream cashmere sweater over her head and slipped out into the corridor.
The hallway was dimly lit by wrought-iron wall sconces. As she walked toward the central gallery, she heard the low, rumbling murmur of voices coming from the far end of the west wing.
She crept forward, her leather slippers silent on the Persian runner.
The door to a private corner salon was slightly ajar.
Inside, Victor was standing before a massive floor-to-ceiling oil painting draped in a dark silk shroud. In his right hand, he held an empty crystal glass. In his left, gleaming beneath the lamplight, was a heavy Colt .45.
Lev stood by the door, holding an encrypted satellite phone.
« Les O’Sullivan ont convoqué une réunion d’urgence au terminal portuaire pour demain minuit », disait Lev d’une voix tendue. « Connor prétend vouloir négocier une nouvelle limite pour le fret portuaire. »
Victor ne quittait pas des yeux le tableau recouvert d’un voile.
« Ce n’est pas une négociation », dit Victor, d’un ton plus froid que la pluie hivernale qui fouettait les vitres. « C’est une exécution. Connor sait qu’il a franchi la ligne rouge en envoyant des hommes après Mlle Brooks. »
« Patron », insista Lev avec prudence. « Si vous allez aux docks demain, vous emmenez toute la brigade. On n’arrive pas à Charlestown avec une simple poignée de main. »
Victor leva son verre, vida la dernière goutte de vodka, avant de le poser sur la cheminée.
« Je ne prendrai pas une brigade, Lev. Une brigade, ça fait peur. Je vous prendrai toi, quatre chauffeurs et un seul compagnon. »
