Chapter 5 - The Safehouse
The rain had returned to the city, falling in heavy, vertical sheets that turned the glass skyscrapers of downtown into blurred, glowing monoliths.
At 11:30 p.m., a single black Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled into the underground parking garage of the St. Regis Executive Apartments—a high-end residential building on 5th Avenue where the District Attorney kept his off-the-books safehouses.
Anthony was at the wheel. Franco sat in the back seat beside me.
I was wearing a plain dark trench coat over my clothes. My hands were stuffed deep into my pockets, clenching and unclenching into tight, sweaty fists.
"Are you afraid, Sarah?" Franco asked quietly, looking out the tinted window at the damp concrete pillars of the garage.
I took a slow breath through my nose, feeling the dull, faint ache in my healed ribs.
"I was afraid for five years, Mr. Bellini," I whispered, looking directly into his dark eyes. "I was afraid every time I heard his boots on the stairs. I was afraid every time he looked at Megan. I’m done being afraid."
Franco looked at me for a long moment. A subtle, approving nod passed over his features.
"Good," he murmured. "Then let us end it."
Anthony checked his sidearm, pulled a master electronic key card from his jacket—provided courtesy of the building's head of security, who owed Franco a debt dating back ten years—and led us toward the private service elevator.
We rode the elevator in complete silence up to the fourteenth floor.
The corridor was quiet, dimly lit, and carpeted in deep burgundy rug that muffled our footsteps. We stopped outside Apartment 1408.
Anthony leaned in close to the electronic lock, swiped the master key card, and pushed the door open.
CLICK.
The heavy door swung inward without a sound.
Inside, the apartment smelled of stale pizza, cheap gin, and tobacco. The living room was lit only by the blue glow of a massive television screen playing a midnight sports broadcast.
Sitting on a plush leather recliner in the center of the room, his right arm bound in a heavy white fiberglass cast, was Ryan Foster.
He had a bottle of whiskey clutched in his left hand. He was wearing an expensive silk shirt—clearly bought with part of his advance money from the DA—and sweatpants.
Standing near the kitchen counter, pouring himself a cup of coffee, was Detective Vance.
Neither of them heard us step onto the thick carpet.
"I'm telling you, Vance," Ryan was slurring toward the kitchen, his voice bloated with unearned arrogance. "After tomorrow, when Bellini gets indicted, I want another fifty grand. I’m the one who had to take a beating for this. I deserve—"
"You didn't take a beating, Ryan," Franco’s voice cut through the dark room like a razor blade. "You had your wrist snapped by a professional."
Ryan gasped, dropping his whiskey bottle onto the rug. The glass shattered, soaking the carpet in amber alcohol.
Detective Vance spun around violently, his hand dropping toward the Glock pistol holstered at his hip.
"DON'T!" Anthony’s voice barked from the shadows.
A tiny, sharp red laser dot appeared square on the center of Detective Vance’s forehead. Anthony stood near the doorway, his silenced pistol leveled with terrifying, absolute precision.
"Touch that gun, Detective," Anthony murmured, "and your brain will be on that kitchen backsplash before your hand clears the leather."
Vance froze. His face went instantly pale, his hand hovering two inches above his holster, cold sweat bursting across his forehead.
Ryan scrambled backward in his recliner like a cornered beast, his eyes wide with wild, hysterical terror as he recognized Franco Bellini stepping into the blue light of the television.
And then he saw me.
Ryan stopped scrambling. His mouth opened and closed like a dying fish. "S-Sarah...?"
I stepped out from behind Franco, walking slowly into the center of the living room until I stood five feet from the man who had tormented my life for half a decade.
"Hello, Ryan," I said. My voice didn't tremble. It didn't waver. It was as cold and firm as the stone walls of the Bellini cottage.
"Sarah... baby..." Ryan stammered, his eyes darting frantically between Franco, Anthony’s gun, and me. "Listen to me... they made me do this! The cops! They threatened to put me in jail for gambling! I didn't want to hurt you or Megan—"
"Shut your mouth," I said softly.
Ryan blinked, stunned by the absolute hatred in my voice.
I pulled my right hand out of my trench coat pocket. I wasn't holding a weapon. I was holding a small, portable digital recorder provided by Ms. Reed.
I pressed the silver record button.
"Ryan," I said, leaning down so my face was eighteen inches from his pale, sweat-slicked nose. "On the night of the fourteenth, did Franco Bellini kidnap me?"
"Sarah... please—"
"DID HE KIDNAP ME?!" I roared, the pent-up rage of five years of beatings, humiliation, and terror exploding out of my throat in a deafening shout that made Detective Vance flinch.
"NO!" Ryan shrieked, cowering back into the cushions of the recliner, holding his cast up to shield his face. "NO! HE DIDN'T KIDNAP YOU! YOU RAN AWAY!"
"Why did I run away, Ryan?" I demanded, my voice dropping into an icy, relentless whisper.
"Because... because I hit you!" Ryan sobbed, tears spilling down his blotchy, terrified face. "I hit you over the chicken... I cracked your ribs... I grabbed Megan's wrists when she tried to pull me off... I'm sorry, Sarah! I'm sorry! Please don't let him kill me!"
"And who paid you to lie to the Grand Jury?" I pressed, holding the recorder closer to his trembling lips.
"Vance!" Ryan pointed a shaking left finger toward the detective standing frozen near the kitchen. "Vance and District Attorney Sterling! They erased my sixty-thousand-dollar debt at the casino and promised me twenty-five grand to sign the paper! They told me Bellini would be locked up and you’d have to come back to me!"
I slowly pressed the stop button on the digital recorder.
CLICK.
I stood up straight, tucked the recorder safely into my coat pocket, and looked at Franco.
Franco didn't say a word. He reached into his suit jacket, pulled out a satellite phone, dialed a speed-dial number, and held the receiver to his ear.
"Evelyn," Franco said flatly into the phone. "I have the full confession on tape. Broadcast it to the State Internal Affairs Bureau, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and the Chief of Police immediately."
He paused, listening for a second.
"Yes," Franco added softly, looking down at Ryan cowering in the recliner. "Cancel the court hearing tomorrow. District Attorney Sterling will be resigning by sunrise."
Franco hung up the phone, placed it back in his pocket, and turned toward the door.
"What about them, boss?" Anthony asked, gesturing with his pistol toward Vance and Ryan.
May you like
Franco stopped near the threshold, looking back over his shoulder one last time.
"Leave them," Franco said with absolute, crushing indifference. "The FBI will be here in twenty minutes to arrest them both. They are no longer worth my time."
