Chapter 3 - The First Thread
By 9:00 AM, the atmosphere inside the DeVito organization’s headquarters—a converted industrial loft in TriBeCa disguised as an import-export firm—was walking on broken glass.
Paulie stood in front of Luca’s oversized steel desk, holding a clipboard, sweating despite the air conditioning. He had worked for Luca for twelve years and knew every twitch of his boss's jaw. Right now, Luca looked like a man who had just discovered his entire empire was built on quicksand.
“Boss,” Paulie started cautiously. “The shipments are moving. But about Mrs. DeVito—”
“Find her,” Luca interrupted. His voice was terrifyingly soft, stripped of all warmth.
“We checked the usual spots, Luca,” Paulie said, lowering his clipboard. “The Plaza, the Carlyle, her sister’s place in Astoria. Nobody’s seen her. She didn't check into any major hotels under her name.”
“She doesn't use major hotels,” Luca said, standing up so abruptly his leather chair scraped backward against the polished concrete. He walked to the window, staring down at the street. “Think, Paulie. Where does a woman go when she wants to disappear from a man who owns half the city?”
“I don't know, boss. Most people run to family.”
“Her parents died in the crash when she was nineteen,” Luca said, his mind racing backward through seven years of forgotten anniversaries and muffled phone calls. “She has no family. She has a bookstore she sold four years ago because I told her she didn't need to work. She has friends she stopped seeing because my world wasn't safe for them.”
He stopped. A memory flashed in his mind—a rainy afternoon three years ago when Emma had come home smelling of salt water and old paper, holding a battered paperback edition of The Count of Monte Cristo.
“Where were you?” he had asked from his desk. “Just walking,” she had smiled softly. “Finding a place where nobody knows your last name.”
“She went back to Brighton Beach,” Luca whispered.
May you like
Paulie blinked. “Brighton? That’s Russian territory, boss. Tarasov’s crew controls the boardwalk. Why would she go out there?”
“Because nobody looks for a ghost in a graveyard,” Luca snapped, grabbing his woolen overcoat from the rack. “Get the cars. We’re going.”
