Chapter 3 - THE MAN WHO ORDERED THE BOMB
Sebastian ordered the mansion locked down before the recording finished playing a second time.
Steel gates closed around the estate.
Security teams moved through hallways.
Phones disappeared into encrypted cases.
No one was allowed to leave.
Including me.
“I have a son.”
Those were the first words out of my mouth.
Sebastian looked up.
“Oliver is at home?”
“With my neighbor.”
“How long?”
“Until ten.”
He checked the clock.
It was already after nine.
“I need to leave.”
“No.”
I stared at him.
“You don’t get to imprison me because your family is insane.”
His guards looked uncomfortable.
Sebastian almost smiled.
“Gabriel.”
Gabriel understood immediately.
“Two cars. Four men. Bring the boy here.”
“No.”
Every face turned toward me.
I walked directly toward Sebastian.
“My son is eight years old. He is sick. You are not sending armed strangers to drag him out of his apartment.”
Sebastian studied me.
“Then you go with them.”
That stopped me.
“You stay beside him. Nobody touches him. Nobody frightens him. You both return here until I know who Mercer contacted.”
I hated that it made sense.
I hated even more that I was scared enough to agree.
Twenty-five minutes later, I was riding through Chicago in an armored SUV with Gabriel while another vehicle followed behind us.
Rain streaked the windows.
Gabriel sat across from me.
“Your boss always handle medical appointments like military invasions?”
“Usually worse.”
I almost laughed.
Almost.
“Who is Sebastian’s uncle?”
“Carlo Lombardi.”
The name meant nothing to me.
Gabriel looked surprised.
“You really don’t know?”
“I spend my days treating bad shoulders and trying not to lose my apartment.”
“Carlo helped raise Sebastian after his mother died. He handled the family’s legitimate businesses while Sebastian’s father ran everything else.”
“And after the bombing?”
“Sebastian took control.”
“From a wheelchair.”
“Especially from a wheelchair.”
Gabriel glanced toward the rain.
“People underestimated him. That lasted about six months.”
“What happened after six months?”
“The people underestimating him stopped.”
I decided not to ask.
My apartment looked even smaller with two armed men standing outside.
Mrs. Alvarez opened the door holding Oliver’s inhaler.
My son sat under a blanket watching cartoons.
When he saw me, he smiled.
Then he noticed Gabriel.
“Mom?”
I crouched beside him.
“Everything’s okay.”
That was lie number one.
“We need to stay somewhere else tonight.”
“Why?”
“Work emergency.”
Lie number two.
Oliver looked at Gabriel.
“Are you a cop?”
Gabriel cleared his throat.
“No.”
“Security guard?”
“Something like that.”
Oliver considered him.
“Do you have snacks?”
Gabriel blinked.
Ten minutes later, Chicago’s most intimidating mafia lieutenant was carrying Oliver’s dinosaur backpack, nebulizer case, and a plastic grocery bag filled with crackers.
Under different circumstances, it would have been funny.
Back at the mansion, Sebastian was waiting in his library.
Oliver stopped when he saw the wheelchair.
Then he looked Sebastian directly in the face.
“You’re the guy my mom is helping?”
Sebastian glanced at me.
“Apparently.”
Oliver walked closer.
“You look angry.”
Gabriel coughed to hide a laugh.
Sebastian raised an eyebrow.
“I’m told that often.”
“Does your back hurt?”
“Sometimes.”
Oliver nodded seriously.
“My lungs are stupid.”
“Oliver.”
“What?”
Sebastian’s mouth twitched.
“They are.”
“I tell them to work better, but they don’t listen.”
Sebastian looked at him for several seconds.
Then something almost human appeared in his face.
“I understand that problem.”
Oliver was given a bedroom near mine, complete with an air purifier Sebastian ordered installed within fifteen minutes.
I returned to the library.
On the table sat a photograph.
Sebastian at twenty-two.
Standing.
Tall, broad-shouldered, smiling beside an older man.
His father.
Between them stood a younger Carlo Lombardi.
“Taken three weeks before the explosion,” Sebastian said.
“What did the police determine?”
“Nothing useful.”
“Suspects?”
“Too many.”
“Enemies?”
“Hundreds.”
He rolled toward the window.
“My father had scheduled dinner with three business partners that night. Carlo changed the restaurant reservation two hours before we arrived.”
My pulse quickened.
“Why?”
“He said there was a security concern.”
“And the bomb was at the new restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“Was Carlo there?”
Sebastian’s expression hardened.
“He canceled twenty minutes before dinner.”
There it was.
A fact that probably looked meaningless twenty years ago.
Now it looked like a confession.
Gabriel entered holding a laptop.
“We found something.”
He placed it on the desk.
“Mercer’s outgoing calls over the last year. Seven numbers. One belongs to a shell company tied to Carlo’s attorney.”
Sebastian’s voice became quiet.
“Anything from 2006?”
“Still searching.”
I looked at the photograph.
“Why would Carlo want you alive but disabled?”
Sebastian answered without hesitation.
“Control.”
He explained.
After his father died, Carlo had expected to become temporary head of the Lombardi organization.
But Sebastian survived.
Even paralyzed, Sebastian was his father’s only son and legal heir to enormous legitimate holdings.
Carlo became adviser.
Sebastian became boss.
“You being alive protected the family name,” I said.
“And me believing I was permanently helpless kept Carlo essential.”
Exactly.
A knock interrupted us.
One of the guards stepped inside.
“Dr. Mercer is gone.”
Sebastian’s head snapped around.
“What?”
“His house is empty. Security cameras were wiped.”
Gabriel cursed.
The guard continued.
“There’s more.”
He placed an envelope on the desk.
“It was delivered to the front gate ten minutes ago.”
No return address.
Gabriel opened it carefully.
Inside was a photograph.
My apartment building.
Taken that evening.
Across the photograph, someone had written:
THE BOY BREATHES BECAUSE WE ALLOW IT.
My knees nearly collapsed.
Sebastian caught the paper before it fell from my hand.
His entire face changed.
Cold rage.
Not explosive.
Worse.
Controlled.
“No one touches them,” he said.
Gabriel nodded.
Sebastian looked at me.
“I swear to you, Claire.”
“Don’t swear.”
My voice cracked.
“Just keep my son alive.”
He looked toward the photograph again.
“I will.”
Then Oliver screamed from upstairs.
I ran.
Sebastian’s chair shot forward behind me.
We reached the bedroom and found Oliver sitting upright, gasping.
His nebulizer machine was on the floor.
The tubing had been cut.
Not disconnected.
Cut.
My blood turned cold.
May you like
Someone inside Sebastian Lombardi’s locked mansion had entered my son’s room.
And they were still somewhere in the house.
