Chapter 8 - The Shadow at the Gate
The name Matteo Rossi sent an immediate cold chill through the room.
Rossi was the head of the rival Providence syndicate—a ruthless, forty-year-old mobster who had been slowly chipping away at the Moretti family's waterfront contracts ever since Rafe’s accident seven months ago.
"How many men did he bring?" Rafe asked, his voice entirely devoid of panic, dropping into that terrifyingly calm tone that commanded absolute obedience.
"Eighteen," Daniel said from the doorway. "All armed. They're parked right outside the iron gates on Shore Road. He's demanding to see you in person to 'verify your health' before he signs the new port lease agreement."
Gus slammed his cane against the floor. "He knows you're in a wheelchair, Rafe! He knows if he sees you crippled, our union stewards will lose confidence and flip to his side by nightfall!"
Rafe looked down at his missing right leg, wrapped in loose dark trousers that hid the stump, but clearly revealing the vacant space beneath his knee.
He couldn't wear his old leather prosthesis yet; the skin on his stump was still too sensitive from seven months of disuse, and trying to walk on it without weeks of physical therapy would tear the tissue open.
If he went down to the gate in a wheelchair, Rossi would win without firing a single shot. The political balance of the Rhode Island underworld would shift instantly.
"I'll go down in the Mercedes," Rafe said, his jaw setting hard. "I'll sit in the back seat. Keep the window halfway down."
"Rossi won't accept that," Daniel warned. "He's going to demand you step out of the car and shake his hand. If you refuse, he'll know."
The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.
Sloan stood near the window, looking from the old man with his wooden cane, to the armed security guard near the door, and finally to Raphael Moretti sitting in his wheelchair.
She saw a man who had spent seven months fighting an invisible war inside his own brain, only to be crushed by the cold reality of the world outside his room.
Sloan took three steps forward.
"Where is your old prosthetic leg?" she asked Rafe.
Rafe looked at her, his brow furrowed. "In the closet downstairs. But I can't put weight on it, Merrick. The skin will split. The nerve pain will—"
"You don't need to put weight on it," Sloan interrupted, her voice sharp, clinical, and precise. "You just need to stand on one leg for ninety seconds."
Gus stared at her. "What are you talking about, girl?"
Sloan turned to Daniel. "Go get the prosthesis. Bring a pair of his old leather riding boots, a heavy walking stick, and two yards of elastic medical bandage from the pantry kit."
She turned back to Rafe.
"You're going to put on a show, Mr. Moretti," Sloan said, her dark eyes flashing with determination. "You're not a crippled man hiding in a dark room. You're an injured boss who suffered a bad knee in an accident, and who is currently very, very angry that a minor captain broke his driveway protocol."
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Rafe stared at her. Slowly, a slow, dark grin spread across his face—a terrifying, wolfish smile that made him look completely unrecognizable.
"Daniel," Rafe commanded softly. "Get the boots."
