Chapter 3 - Blood Inside the House
Roman listened to the recording three times.
Each time, the result was the same.
The voice belonged to Mateo Navarro.
His younger brother.
His last living relative.
The boy Roman had protected since Mateo was six years old and their father had been killed outside a Brooklyn restaurant. Roman had raised him, educated him, covered his debts, and cleaned up every disaster his recklessness created.
Mateo had been in Miami for the previous six months.
At least that was what Roman had been told.
Caleb lowered his weapon.
“This can be manufactured,” he said.
Vivian turned toward him. “Of course it can.”
Roman studied her.
“You agree?”
“I said it can be manufactured. I did not say it was.”
Police officers entered the ballroom, led by Detective Lena Park, a homicide investigator whose history with Roman was complicated enough to fill several sealed court files.
She took in the destroyed stage and the injured guests.
Then she saw Roman.
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Because disappointment has become your personality,” Roman replied.
Park looked at Vivian. “Who are you?”
“The person who kept the casualty count from becoming much larger.”
Vivian handed the recorder to the detective.
Roman caught her wrist before Park could take it.
“No.”
Vivian’s voice sharpened. “Release me.”
“That recording concerns my family.”
“It concerns attempted murder.”
Park stepped between them.
“Navarro, take your hand off the witness.”
Roman released Vivian.
Detective Park sealed the recorder in an evidence bag while Vivian explained what had happened. She described Penelope’s position near the stage, Gregory’s escape, the fake Falcon, and the voice she had recorded six months earlier.
Roman remained silent.
His thoughts were already moving beyond the ballroom.
If Mateo had been involved, then the attack was not simply an assassination attempt.
It was a transfer of power.
Roman’s death would divide the Navarro organization overnight. Captains would choose sides. Competitors would invade territory. Politicians who owed him favors would suddenly discover principles.
Mateo would inherit the name, but not necessarily the loyalty.
Unless someone powerful had promised to provide it.
Penelope Croft’s family controlled pharmaceutical distribution across six states. Gregory Hale managed charities used by some of the wealthiest families in the country. Together, they could move money and equipment without attracting suspicion.
But neither could access Roman’s medical frequency.
That knowledge came from inside his house.
Detective Park turned to Vivian.
“You will need to come downtown.”
“She is coming with me,” Roman said.
Park laughed once. “That was not a request.”
“She has already been targeted.”
“By whom?”
Before Roman could answer, a sharp popping sound came from the balcony.
Vivian reacted first.
“Down!”
She struck Roman’s chest and forced him behind an overturned table.
A bullet shattered the marble column where his head had been.
Caleb fired toward the balcony.
Guests screamed again.
Police officers rushed toward the staircase, but the shooter had already vanished through a service door.
Roman looked at Vivian beneath the table.
“You heard the weapon?”
“I heard the safety move.”
“From across the ballroom?”
“Stop looking impressed. It’s irritating.”
Despite everything, Roman smiled.
Detective Park ordered Vivian into protective custody.
Roman refused.
Park threatened to arrest him.
Roman reminded her that half the responding officers had families whose hospital bills he had quietly paid.
Vivian ended the argument.
“I will go with Mr. Navarro.”
Park stared at her. “That is a terrible decision.”
“Probably.”
“Then why make it?”
Vivian turned toward Roman’s voice.
“Because the shooter did not fire until the recorder entered police evidence. Someone is afraid of what else I know.”
Roman’s armored vehicle carried them away through the hotel’s underground service tunnel. Caleb sat in front while Vivian and Roman occupied the rear.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Manhattan lights moved across the tinted windows, invisible to Vivian.
Roman watched her instead.
“You knew the shot was coming,” he said.
“I heard the balcony door open.”
“You also knew where to push me.”
“Your voice gave me your position.”
“Most people run away from bullets.”
“Most people in your life probably believe standing near you will make them important.”
“And you do not?”
“I believe standing near you will make me a target.”
“Yet here you are.”
Vivian turned her face toward the window.
“I need the truth about my father.”
Roman’s expression changed.
“Arthur Mercer.”
“You know his name.”
“I know many names.”
“You knew his.”
Roman did not answer.
Arthur Mercer had not merely sold antiques. He had once built advanced acoustic security systems for private collectors, intelligence contractors, and men who preferred not to appear on official customer lists.
Twenty years earlier, he had designed the first secure vault beneath the Navarro family’s Brooklyn estate.
Eight years ago, Arthur had discovered that priceless artifacts were being replaced with forgeries before moving through charity auctions. The originals vanished into private collections. The counterfeit pieces were sold to unsuspecting buyers, generating clean money for corrupt families.
Arthur had begun collecting evidence.
Then his car went off a bridge in Connecticut.
The police called it an accident.
Roman had never believed them.
“You think I killed him,” Roman said.
Vivian’s jaw tightened.
“I think he left your name on a recording three days before he died.”
Roman leaned back.
“What exactly did he say?”
“That Roman Navarro was the last man in New York who could expose the people behind the Falcon.”
“He said expose?”
“He said stop.”
That surprised him.
Vivian continued.
“My father knew he was being followed. He sent me a package before his death. Inside was a list of auction houses, bank accounts, and coded recordings. Most of it was damaged.”
“But not all.”
“No.”
“Why wait eight years?”
“Because I was seventeen years old and grieving. Because every adult told me my father was paranoid. Because one of the detectives investigating his death disappeared.”
The vehicle fell silent.
Roman glanced at Caleb.
The security chief’s hands tightened around the steering wheel.
“Which detective?” Roman asked.
“Thomas Garrison.”
Caleb slammed on the brakes.
The armored vehicle stopped in the center of a private tunnel beneath Roman’s Manhattan residence.
Roman’s eyes shifted toward his security chief.
Caleb slowly turned around.
“Thomas Garrison was my father.”
Vivian’s breath caught.
Caleb looked at her with disbelief.
“He disappeared when I was twenty-two. I was told he accepted money and fled the country.”
“My father believed Thomas was trying to protect him.”
Roman’s voice hardened. “Why did neither of you tell me this?”
Caleb faced forward again.
“I did not know.”
Vivian reached inside her clutch and removed a small brass key.
“My father left this with the recordings. It has the Navarro crest engraved on one side.”
Roman stared at it.
He recognized the key.
Only three had ever existed.
One belonged to Roman’s father.
One belonged to Arthur Mercer.
The third opened a sealed underground vault beneath the family’s abandoned Brooklyn mansion.
A vault Roman had not entered since the night his father died.
“We are changing direction,” he told Caleb.
Vivian shook her head. “Not yet.”
Roman looked at her.
“There is something else in my father’s recording.”
“What?”
“He said the vault could only be opened safely by a Navarro and a Mercer together.”
“That sounds theatrical.”
“My father enjoyed drama.”
“So do you.”
Vivian ignored him.
“He warned that if anyone tried to force the lock, the contents would be destroyed.”
Roman took the brass key from her palm.
The metal was warm from her skin.
“This key alone will not open it,” he said.
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because my father hid the second key somewhere inside the Imperial Falcon.”
Roman looked toward Caleb.
“The original Falcon.”
Vivian nodded.
“The statue at the gala was a copy. Whoever built the bomb had access to the measurements, the weight, and the internal structure. That means they have already found the original.”
Caleb drove toward Brooklyn.
Rain began striking the roof of the vehicle.
Vivian listened to it while Roman made a series of calls. He ordered his men to locate Mateo, freeze accounts connected to Gregory Hale, and place surveillance on every Croft-owned property.
No one found Mateo.
By the time they reached the abandoned Navarro mansion, the storm had covered Brooklyn in sheets of water.
The house stood behind iron gates and overgrown trees, dark except for one light burning in an upstairs window.
Roman noticed it first.
“No one has lived here in fifteen years.”
Caleb drew his weapon.
The front gate was already unlocked.
Inside the house, dust covered the furniture. Portraits stared down from the walls. Rain tapped against tall windows.
Vivian unfolded her white cane.
Roman glanced at it.
“You carried that through the gala but never used it.”
“I prefer people to underestimate me.”
“You succeeded.”
They crossed the entrance hall.
Vivian stopped near the staircase.
“There is someone upstairs.”
Caleb listened.
“I hear nothing.”
“He is holding his breath.”
Roman drew his gun.
A floorboard creaked above them.
Then a familiar voice came from the darkness.
“Brother.”
Mateo Navarro stepped into view.
He looked thinner than Roman remembered. His shirt was stained with blood, and one hand pressed against a wound in his side.
Roman raised his weapon.
Mateo stared at it and laughed bitterly.
“So she played you the recording.”
“Come downstairs.”
“I did not plant the bomb in your car.”
“It was your voice.”
“It was built from my voice.”
Roman’s expression did not change.
Mateo descended one step at a time.
“Penelope recorded me for years. Calls, meetings, arguments. She had enough material to make me say anything.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because I came here to warn you.”
Mateo reached the bottom of the stairs and collapsed against the railing.
Vivian moved toward him.
Caleb blocked her.
“Wait.”
She listened to Mateo’s breathing.
“He has lost a dangerous amount of blood.”
Roman kept the weapon trained on his brother.
“Who shot you?”
Mateo looked at Caleb.
“Your security chief’s father.”
No one moved.
Caleb’s face emptied.
“My father is dead.”
Mateo shook his head.
“No. Thomas Garrison is alive.”
A gun clicked somewhere beneath the floor.
Vivian felt the vibration travel through her cane.
Someone was standing behind the wall beside the old fireplace.
She turned sharply.
“Roman, get down!”
The wall panel burst open.
A gray-haired man stepped from a hidden passage with a gun aimed at Roman’s chest.
Caleb whispered one word.
“Dad?”
May you like
Thomas Garrison smiled.
Then he pulled the trigger.
