Chapter 3 - The Wounds of a Ghost
Hollis worked with the brisk, methodical precision of someone who had once spent three years as a triage nurse before life and poverty had stripped her of her license. She retrieved her old medical kit from the top shelf of the closet—gauze, surgical tape, iodine, and a precious, unopened bottle of broad-spectrum veterinary amoxicillin she had kept for emergencies.
"You're going to feel this," Hollis murmured softly, even though the girl was deep in the throes of delirium.
As the iodine hit the open flesh, the girl’s back arched violently. Her violet-gray eyes flew wide, staring at the peeling ceiling paint without seeing it. A scream tore toward her throat, but Hollis was already there, pressing a rolled, clean washcloth between her teeth to muffle the sound.
"Bite down, honey. Don't wake my boy. You're safe. I've got you."
Tears carved pale tracks through the soot on the girl’s cheeks. Her small, trembling hands clamped onto Hollis’s forearms with shocking strength, nails digging into Hollis’s work fleece.
Slowly, the tension ebbed, and the girl’s head fell back against the edge of the tub. The delirium pulled her under once more, but her lips moved constantly, spilling fragmented whispers into the humid air of the small bathroom.
"He took the seal... Marco told Dante I ran... said I took the ledger..."
Hollis froze, her needle hovering over the torn flesh. *Marco. Dante.*
The names echoed through the city’s underbelly like thunder before a storm. Dante Moretti was the reigning king of New Carthage—a man feared by politicians and precinct captains alike. Rumor had it he was currently tearing the city apart from the roots, waging a shadow war that had left half a dozen dock warehouses burning over the last two weeks. The papers claimed it was a turf war.
Now, looking down at the girl’s aristocratic cheekbones, the faint arch of her dark brows, and the striking, unmistakable violet tint of her eyes, a chill ran down Hollis’s spine.
She had seen that face once before, plastered on a high-society charity gala poster outside the opera house eighteen months ago.
*Elena Moretti.*
The younger sister. The only living family Dante Moretti had left in the world, reported dead after an alleged yacht explosion off the coast of Cape May six months back.
Hollis sat back on her heels, the thread between her fingers slick with blood. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She wasn't holding a runaway. She was holding a ghost whose survival could burn the entire city to ash.
She quickly finished stitching the wound, wrapping sterile gauze tight across the girl’s torso. She changed Elena into a pair of her own soft cotton sweatpants and an oversized flannel shirt, then dragged a spare mattress into the small storage alcove behind the kitchen.
Before tucking the girl under two heavy blankets, Hollis reached into the pocket of her own coat and retrieved the crumpled, blood-stained paper.
*Not of the same blood.*
Under the dim light of the stove lamp, Hollis smoothed out the creases. It wasn't just a note. It was a section cut from an official pathology report, stamped by a private genetic laboratory, claiming an absolute absence of biological relation.
May you like
Someone had forged a lie to sever the sister from the brother. Someone close enough to possess the Moretti seal.
***
