Chapter 1 - The Voice Behind the Wall
The air in my study turned instantly frigid, as if the autumn wind from Beacon Hill had somehow breached the thick masonry of the mansion.
I stood frozen beside my mahogany desk, my eyes locked onto the towering oak bookcase covering the west wall. The antique books—gilded leather volumes of law, history, and family ledgers dating back a century—looked completely undisturbed.
Yet the three soft, rhythmic knocks against the heavy timber were unmistakable.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Mia held onto my wool coat sleeve so tightly her small, red fingers turned white at the knuckles. On her back, her fourteen-month-old sister, Lily, let out a soft, restless sigh, her little head shifting against the faded blue shawl.
“Mr. Duca…” Mia whimpered, her large brown eyes reflecting the dim amber light of the desk lamp. “Is… is that a ghost?”
“No,” I said, my voice dropping into the quiet, lethal tone that usually made hardened men in South Boston hold their breath. “Ghosts don't knock, Mia. Stay right behind me.”
I reached into my inner coat pocket and unholstered my matte-black Sig Sauer P226. The cold steel felt familiar, grounding me in reality. In my world—where the Duca family had controlled maritime shipping, private security, and underground Boston commerce for three generations—mysteries were rarely supernatural. They were usually dangerous, deeply human, and paid for in blood.
The voice spoke again from behind the central shelf, slightly muffled by twelve inches of solid oak and brickwork, but distinct enough to make my chest tighten with a sudden, suffocating panic.
“Romey…”
Nobody called me Romey.
My father, Vance Duca, had called me that when I was eleven years old, right before he died. My mother had died giving birth to me. For twenty-seven years, I had been Roman to my associates, Mr. Duca to my staff, and a shadow to my enemies.
I stepped toward the west wall, keeping Mia positioned securely behind my back.
Seventeen years ago, after my father’s funeral, my uncle Dominic had ordered the mansion’s lower annex and the hidden vault behind my study sealed with heavy iron plates and mortar. He told me my father had kept classified cartel ledgers and unstable munitions inside, and that opening it would draw federal indictments down upon our family. I had respected that decision—until tonight.
I reached out with my left hand and grabbed the spine of a heavy, leather-bound volume of 19th-century maritime law on the third shelf.
May you like
I pulled it forward.
A heavy mechanical latch clicked inside the wall. The sound of rusted iron grinding against stone echoed through the study as the central panel of the bookcase swung outward by two inches, releasing a puff of stagnant, ice-cold air that smelled of damp limestone, old iron, and blood.
