Chapter 2 - Shadows in the RegistryThe private study on the third floor of the Russo estate was a fortress within a fortress. No windows faced the exterior grounds; the walls were lined with soundproofed mahogany panels hiding reinforced steel plating, and the air was perpetually filtered through medical-grade carbon scrubbers.
Dominic sat behind a massive, slate-top desk. The only illumination came from a single green-shaded banker’s lamp, casting harsh light across a thick manila folder resting under his right hand.
The file bore a single name typed on a sticky label: Elena Vance.
The young maid.
The door hissed open, and Vincent Hale stepped inside, closing it silently behind him. As Dominic’s head of security and the man who had pulled him out of three burning wrecks over the past decade, Vincent possessed a face that looked like it had been carved out of granite by someone who hated sculpture.
“She’s locked in the guest quarters by the east gate,” Vincent reported, leaning against the edge of the bookshelf. “Passport check is clean. Social Security number matches a twenty-two-year-old orphan from upstate New York. Culinary school graduate. Worked in three Manhattan bistros before getting fired for absenteeism.”
“A clean profile,” Dominic murmured, tapping a finger against the edge of the desk. “Too clean.”
“Agreed,” Vincent said. “I ran her phone through our local IMSI-catcher repeater the moment Rosa hired her. She has a burner registered under a dead man’s identity pinging a cell tower in Flushing twice a week. Last ping was four hours before you arrived home.”
Dominic stood up, walking over to the dark mahogany wet bar. He poured two fingers of unaged rye whiskey into a heavy crystal glass, swirling the amber spirit without drinking.
“Who’s on the other end of that tower?”
“We’re tracing the IP now,” Vincent said grimly. “Boss... you don’t think she planted something? A bug? A directional mic?”
“I don’t care about bugs, Vincent. Microphones can be swept in ten minutes,” Dominic said, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the dark glass of the bar mirror. “I care about what Lucia said.”
Vincent fell silent. In the underworld, words were currency, and a four-year-old child didn't invent a conspiracy theory out of thin air.
“The official line from the NYPD and the Federal Task Force on the Queens Boulevard shooting,” Dominic continued, his voice dropping into a register that made even Vincent tense up, “was that a black sedan boxed Isabella in, and two gunmen with MAC-10s opened fire. Three hundred rounds. Isabella took thirty-two.”
“We killed every single man involved in that hit,” Vincent reminded him quietly. “We took the triggermen apart piece by piece in the warehouse down by the shipyard. You watched the life drain out of the captain who gave the order.”
“I know what I watched,” Dominic hissed, slamming his glass down onto the marble bar top so hard the crystal cracked with a sharp, spiderweb fracture. “I watched my wife die because she was driving my bulletproof Mercedes while my decoy vehicle was three blocks away! I knew the risks of my life, Vincent! I built the goddamn targets on my own back!”
“Dominic—suppress the rage,” Vincent warned sharply, using his first name only when absolute authority was required to pull his boss back from the edge. “You’re spinning out. Exactly what Arthur Voss wanted before we locked him in the northern facility.”
Dominic took a slow, deep breath, reigning the wild fury back into the iron cage of his self-control. He closed his eyes for three seconds, letting the burn of the rye settle his nerves.
“Voss is locked up,” Dominic said evenly. “He doesn’t have access to my house.”
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“Not directly. But Voss had fifteen years inside the organization to plant sleeping assets. People who don't look like soldiers. People who look like... kitchen maids.”
Dominic picked up his glass again, taking a measured sip. “Bring Elena Vance up here. Let’s see how well her clean profile holds up under direct atmospheric pressure.”
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