Chapter 3 - The Ghost at the Penthouse
At eleven o'clock that night, Dominic Vance was shoving stacks of hundred-dollar bills into leather duffel bags inside his luxury high-rise apartment overlooking the Charles River. His expensive watch ticked loudly against the silence of the room. Sweat soaked the collar of his designer shirt as he frantically dialed his pilot.
"Confirm the flight plan," Dominic barked into his phone. "Direct to Montreal, no stops. If the tower delays us by five minutes, double the cash."
"The tower isn't the problem, Dominic," a voice spoke from the shadows of the balcony.
Dominic spun around, dropping a stack of cash onto the floor. His hand darted toward the shoulder holster beneath his jacket, but the distinct, mechanical click of a customized suppressor stopped him dead in his tracks.
I stepped through the open sliding glass door, wearing a simple black overcoat, completely alone. Behind me, the city lights flickered in the dark waters of the river.
"Gabriel," Dominic gasped, his chest heaving, his face turning the color of chalk. He slowly raised his hands into the air, backing away until his knees hit the glass coffee table. "How... how did you get past the lobby security?"
"I built this tower fifteen years ago, Dominic," I said softly, walking toward him without drawing my weapon. "I know which elevators bypass the service sensors. You forgot whose shadow you’ve been walking in your whole life."
"Listen to me, Gabe," Dominic pleaded, his eyes darting frantically toward the door. "Moretti threatened my family! They found my sister in Providence! They said they would carve her up if I didn't hand over the shipping manifests! I had no choice!"
"You always have a choice," I said, stopping three paces from him. I pulled a manila folder from inside my coat and tossed it onto the sofa beside his bags. "If you had come to me, your sister would have been safe in an armored villa within three hours. But you didn't call me. You took twelve million dollars from Salvatore Moretti and sold my men to federal agents."
Dominic looked at the folder, his hands trembling. "What is that?"
"That is the full banking record of the Moretti cartel's offshore accounts, signed by your sister’s notary," I said. "Three hours ago, my accountants liquidated those accounts and routed the funds into a trust for the families of the two drivers you left at the docks. You have no money in Montreal, Dominic. You have no offshore accounts. You have only the clothes on your back."
Dominic fell to his knees on the Persian rug, tears spilling from his bloodshot eyes. "Kill me then. Just make it quick. Don't let Moretti’s butchers do it."
I looked down at the man who had shared meals at my mother's table thirty years ago. In my right pocket, my fingers brushed against the crumpled edges of Elsie's paper star.
"I’m not going to kill you, Dominic," I said. "A bullet is an easy exit. You’re going to walk into the federal courthouse at eight o'clock tomorrow morning and surrender yourself as an eyewitness against Salvatore Moretti. You will spend the next ten years in federal custody, and you will testify against every corrupt judge and dock official on Moretti’s payroll."
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Dominic stared at me, bewildered. "And if I run?"
"You won't run," I whispered, turning toward the balcony. "Because Mateo is waiting downstairs with your sister, safely escorted to an undisclosed location. If you tell the truth, she stays safe. If you run, you face the world alone."
