Chapter 2 - The Scent of Betrayal
The armored Mercedes G-Wagon plowed through two feet of unplowed drifts on Route 41 like a battle tank. Wind howled through the steel framing, throwing sheets of icy snow against the bulletproof windshield. The wipers groaned under the weight of the ice.
Victor sat behind the wheel, his knuckles stark white against the leather. In the passenger seat, Marco kept three tablets balanced on his lap, tracking satellite pings and traffic camera feeds through the storm.
"She bypassed the main junction twenty minutes before the state police blocked the exits," Marco reported, squinting through the glare of the monitors. "The local sheriff reported an abandoned gray station wagon ditch-slid three miles south of Lake Geneva. No occupants inside."
Victor’s heart stopped. The world went dead and hollow. "Was there an ambulance called?"
"No ambulance," Marco said quickly. "The sheriff’s deputy logged it as an unattended vehicle. The engine was cold. That means she left the car voluntarily before the snow reached the wheel wells."
"She’s on foot," Victor whispered, horrified. "In five-degree weather. Carrying twin infants."
He remembered Mia’s fragile lungs. When she was born at thirty-one weeks, the doctors had warned them that a common cold could turn into fatal bronchial distress within twelve hours. Nora had stayed awake for forty-eight hours straight by the incubator, holding Mia’s tiny wrist, singing soft lullabies, while Victor had checked his watch, impatient to attend a port authority meeting.
What kind of monster am I? he thought, his chest caving inward under an agony worse than any bullet wound.
"Boss, you need to look at this," Marco said, his voice tightening. He turned one of the tablets toward Victor.
The screen displayed an encrypted digital ledger retrieved from the server at Sylvia Vance’s condo.
"Our technical unit hacked Sylvia’s cloud backup twenty minutes after you left the city," Marco explained, his jaw tight. "She wasn't just pursuing you because she found you attractive. Sylvia has been on the payroll of the Donati family out of Detroit for eighteen months."
Victor didn't take his eyes off the road, but his grip on the wheel cracked the leather casing. "Explain."
"The Donatis wanted our northern distribution corridors. They knew you were untouchable through brute force, so they hired Sylvia to dismantle your household from within. She took photographs of you on her balcony last night. She forwarded the images directly to Mrs. Rinaldi's personal phone at 2:45 AM, along with an audio recording of you telling Sylvia that you were 'tired of the domestic cage.'"
A jagged gasp tore out of Victor’s throat.
He remembered saying those words. He had been half-drunk, frustrated by the relentless pressure of business and the endless crying in the nursery, whining like a pathetic child to a woman who was recording every syllable to destroy his family.
Nora hadn't just smelled the lotion. She had received visual and audio proof of her husband betraying her while she was nursing his sick children. She had packed those bags while listening to his voice tell another woman that he wished he were free.
"Where is Sylvia now?" Victor asked, his tone dropping into a terrifying, icy stillness.
"She’s at the private airport in Waukegan," Marco answered. "Her charter flight to Miami is scheduled for 8:00 AM. Her bank account was just credited with two million dollars from an offshore account tied to the Donati syndicate."
"Call our men at Waukegan," Victor commanded, stepping harder on the gas pedal, the heavy engine roaring through the blizzard. "Tell them to ground that plane. Do not touch her hair, do not strike her. Put her in the cold storage hangar and leave her in the dark. I will deal with Sylvia Vance once my wife and children are breathing."
Up ahead, through the swirling curtain of snow, the blinking red lights of a roadside warning flare appeared.
The gray Subaru sat tilted into the frozen ditch, covered in a foot of fresh powder.
Victor slammed on the brakes, throwing the heavy G-Wagon into a drift. He kicked open the driver’s door and leaped into the knee-deep snow, stumbling toward the abandoned vehicle.
He ripped open the driver’s door. The interior was freezing. On the passenger seat lay an empty infant formula canister, a dropped mitten, and a receipt from a mom-and-pop general store two miles west on a rural county lane.
May you like
Victor picked up the little blue mitten. He pressed it against his cheek, falling to his knees in the snowdrift as the bitter wind whipped tears across his frozen skin.
"I'm coming, Nora," he sobbed into the howling wind. "Please... just stay alive."
