Chapter 2 - The Sound of Approaching Sirens
The private elevator chime sounded with a low, mournful tone that felt out of place amid the rising panic on the 22nd floor. Guests were beginning to edge backward toward the stairwell doors, whispering frantically into their phones. Wyatt Nolan, the third boy who had been smart enough to keep his hands in the air, was already backed against the wall, trying to fade into the wallpaper like a ghost.
"Pike, you idiot! Help me up!" Preston wheezed from the floor, his face flushed purple with humiliation and fury. He spat a fleck of blood onto the marble. "Arrest her! Look at my face! Look at Brody! She’s a psychotic bartender! My father will buy this whole damn building just to burn it down with her inside!"
Ronan Pike didn't move. He stood frozen, his eyes darting between Preston Hollis and Noel Ferraro. The realization of what had occurred was settling over him like a suffocating shroud. He was caught between two empires: the Hollis family, who owned half the city’s real estate permits, and the Ferraro family, who owned the people who granted them.
"Mr. Hollis," Pike stammered, his authoritarian veneer crumbling into dust. "You need medical attention. Let us get you to the suite—"
"I don't want a suite!" Preston shrieked, kicking wildly with his polished loafers. "I want her in chains! Call the police! Call Commissioner Vance! Tell him Preston Hollis is bleeding on the floor of the Meridian!"
"The police are already downstairs, sir," one of the junior security guards said quietly, checking his radio earpiece. "Two cruisers pulled into the alley three minutes ago. Someone called from the floor."
Delaney stepped over the shattered glass, completely unbothered by the shouting. She walked straight to the service counter, picked up Noel’s black violin case from the coat check, and carried it back with both hands, holding it with the exact reverence she had observed hours earlier. She placed it gently at Noel’s feet.
"Here," Delaney said. "The case is untouched."
Noel reached down, her trembling fingers brushing the leather handle. She looked up at Delaney, her eyes shining with an overwhelming mixture of gratitude and sorrow. "Why did you do it? You didn't even know me. He could have ruined your life."
"He already tried," Delaney said softly. "People like him have been doing it to people like me for a hundred years. Tonight, he ran out of luck."
The elevator doors slid open with a sharp ding. Four Providence city police officers stepped into the lounge, their tasers drawn, scanning the perimeter. Behind them walked Detective Frank Castillo, a veteran investigator with tired eyes and twenty-five years of street dirt ground into the creases of his forehead.
Castillo took in the scene in three seconds: the broken glass, the weeping girl in the oversized uniform coat, the blood on the floor, and the two young men writhing in agony. His gaze landed on Preston Hollis.
"Well, well," Castillo murmured, letting out a heavy breath. "If it isn't the pride of the East Side. Looks like you finally found somebody who didn't accept your daddy's credit card, Preston."
"Frank! Arrest that woman!" Preston yelled, pointing a shaking, manicured finger at Delaney. "Aggravated assault! Attempted murder! She attacked us unprovoked!"
Castillo didn't even look at Delaney. He walked directly to Noel, taking off his own wool trench coat and draping it gently over the girl’s shoulders, over Delaney's jacket.
"Are you all right, Noel?" Castillo asked in a tone that was astonishingly gentle, almost familial.
"I’m all right, Frank," Noel whispered, clutching the coat tighter. "She saved me. He... he tore my dress. He tried to take me into the private room."
Castillo turned slowly toward Preston. The casual indifference on the detective’s face vanished, replaced by a cold, predatory disgust. "Preston, you have the right to remain silent. And if you have half the brains God gave a crow, you'll start using it right now."
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"You can't arrest me!" Preston roared as two officers grabbed his arms, wrenching him upward despite his screams of pain. "My father is Arthur Hollis! He will have your badge by midnight!"
"Your father," Castillo said flatly as the handcuffs clicked shut around Preston’s wrists, "is currently the least of your problems. Because five minutes ago, a black town car left the South Providence docks. And Elias Ferraro is already on the bridge."
