Chapter 3 - Blood Money and Broken Promises
Across town, in a suburban cul-de-sac that smelled of freshly cut grass and cheap mortgage debt, Diane Mercer was pouring herself a second glass of boxed chardonnay at 2:00 PM.
She didn't look like a woman who had just sold her stepdaughter. She looked like a woman who believed she had finally won a rigged game.
“Chloe! Stop slouching! The real estate agent will be here in twenty minutes to look at the master bath!” Diane shouted down the hallway, her voice shrill and carrying over the sound of the television.
Chloe emerged from her bedroom, scrolling lazily through her phone, wearing a designer tracksuit bought with the tail end of the Vance wire transfer.
“Relax, Mom. The house is fine. Besides, once Vance clears the final sale of the commercial lot, we’re moving to Scottsdale anyway. Who cares about this dump?” Chloe dropped onto the sofa, kicking her sneakers onto the coffee table. “Did Nora call? Just wondering if she’s figured out how to use a microwave in a mob dungeon yet.”
Diane laughed, a dry, grating sound. “Nora was never smart enough to survive out there. She’ll do what she’s told, clean up after killers, and save us the trouble of feeding her. Honestly, we should have done it two years ago.”
What Diane didn't know—what none of them knew—was that the real estate agent arriving at 2:15 PM wasn't coming to appraise the master bath.
He was an associate of Gabriel Costa named Frankie, and he didn't give a damn about granite countertops.
Back at the Costa estate, I sat in Gabriel’s surveillance room watching the live feed from the hidden camera Frankie wore on his lapel.
“Look at them,” I murmured, watching Diane hand Frankie a glass of tap water while bragging about the crown molding. “They think they’ve won.”
“People who commit small crimes always celebrate too early,” Gabriel said, standing behind my chair. His hand rested lightly on the back of the wood, close enough that I could feel the heat of his arm. “Frankie’s got the deed paperwork and the banking routing numbers tapped. Within forty-eight hours, every asset Diane and Vance hold will be frozen under federal and civil forfeiture laws for association with unlicensed high-stakes gambling syndicates and corporate fraud.”
“You can do that legally?” I asked, looking up at him.
Gabriel gave a dry chuckle. “Nora, the legal system is just a set of rules written by people with better lawyers than Diane. When my lawyers get finished with Vance & Associates, they won't even own the clothes on their backs.”
“I want to be there when it happens,” I said.
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Gabriel looked down at me, his gray eyes softening by a fraction. “It’s going to get messy. These aren't street thugs; they’re white-collar parasites. They’ll cry, they’ll play the victim, they’ll try to manipulate you.”
“They’ve been doing that my whole life,” I replied, standing up so sharply my chair scraped against the tile. “I want a front-row seat.”
