Chapter 3 - The Blood on the Stairs
Savannah’s breath hitched in her throat as the memory shattered against the violent reality of the present moment.
Back in the dark, rain-drenched gallery, the sound of heavy footsteps scrambled up the grand wooden staircase.
“Vincent!” a voice roared from below—a harsh, gravelly voice dripping with malice. “You can’t run out of room in your own house, little brother! We know he’s up here!”
Savannah recognized that voice. It belonged to Hector Vance—a notorious figure in the local dockworkers' union whom Savannah had seen once or twice entering Vincent’s private office under the cover of night.
Vincent tightened his grip on Lucy, pulling her small face firmly against the crook of his neck so she couldn't see the dark hallway. He reached into his coat with his free hand, pulling out a sleek black semiautomatic pistol.
“Savannah,” Vincent commanded, his voice dropping into a low, thunderous register that vibrated with absolute authority. “Get behind Evan. Now.”
Savannah didn't hesitate. She scrambled across the polished floorboards, pressing her back against the cool plaster wall directly behind the wounded stranger.
Evan—the man with Vincent’s face—didn't have a firearm. He held a heavy iron fireplace poker he must have snatched from the lower parlor, his bleeding left arm hanging somewhat limp, yet his posture remained as rigid and lethal as a coiled spring.
“You brought Vance’s men inside my house, Evan?” Vincent hissed under his breath, his eyes fixed on the arched doorway leading to the stairs.
“They’ve been tracking me since Boston,” Evan rasped out. His voice was rougher than Vincent’s, scraped raw as if he hadn't used his vocal cords in years. “They caught my trail at the docks... I had nowhere else to go.”
“You shouldn't have come back,” Vincent muttered, his knuckles turning white around the grip of his gun. “I told you... if they find out you’re alive—”
“They already know!” Evan spat back, coughing slightly, a dark stain spreading further across his sleeve. “Who do you think leaked my location in Maine, Vincent? It wasn't Vance. It was someone inside this house!”
Savannah’s heart hammered violently against her ribs. Alive? Buried? Maine? The words swirled around her like a bad dream.
Before Vincent could respond, two men in rain-drenched leather jackets burst through the arched doorway at the top of the stairs, guns raised.
Bang!
Vincent fired twice without missing a beat. The lead intruder dropped instantly to the floor with a heavy thud. The second man dove behind a marble bust of the family patriarch, firing a wild spray of bullets into the plaster above Savannah’s head.
Plaster dust rained down on them like white snow.
Lucy let out a sharp, frightened squeak against Vincent’s chest.
“Hold her!” Vincent barked, shoving Lucy into Savannah’s arms as he ducked behind a heavy mahogany pillar to return fire.
Savannah pulled her daughter tight against her heart, dropping to her knees in the dark corner. Lucy buried her face in Savannah’s neck, her small hands clutching the back of Savannah’s shirt so hard her knuckles turned grey.
Evan didn't hide. Despite his bleeding shoulder, the scarred man lunged forward during the brief pause in gunfire. He covered the distance to the marble bust in two terrifying, silent strides, swinging the heavy iron poker with blinding speed.
A sickening crack echoed down the gallery. The gunman crumpled to the rug, his weapon sliding across the floor.
Evan scooped up the fallen gunman’s weapon, checked the magazine with an experienced, practiced flick of his wrist, and pointed it down the stairwell.
Silence fell over the second floor—heavy, suffocating, and thick with the metallic smell of gunpowder and blood.
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Downstairs, a single set of slow, deliberate footsteps began ascending the wooden steps.
“Very impressive, boys,” Hector Vance’s gravelly voice echoed up the open shaft. “Just like the old days at the docks. The Marlowe twins... fighting side by side. I thought I’d never see the sight again.”
