Chapter 2 - The Debt That Never Existed
Norah stopped breathing.
For several seconds, the only sound inside the SUV was the muted hiss of tires against wet pavement.
Victor watched her.
Not angrily.
That would have been easier.
Anger could be negotiated with. Anger made mistakes.
Victor Russo looked at her as though she were a puzzle whose answer he had already discovered and was merely waiting to see whether she would lie about it.
Norah swallowed.
“My brother owes you money.”
Victor’s expression did not change.
“Fineian Hastings. Two hundred thousand dollars.”
Nothing.
“He disappeared six days ago. Your people called me. They said I had a week.”
Victor leaned back.
“Who called?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did he sound like?”
Norah almost laughed.
“You expect me to describe a criminal threatening my family?”
“I expect you to answer the question.”
She rubbed her palms against her dress.
“Older. Maybe forty. American. Deep voice.”
“What exactly did he say?”
Norah repeated the threat as closely as she could remember.
Victor listened without interruption.
When she finished, he picked up his phone.
One call.
“Marco.”
Pause.
“Check every outstanding account under Hastings. Fineian Hastings.”
He ended the call.
Norah stared at him.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You don’t remember someone owing you two hundred thousand dollars?”
“I don't run a corner pawnshop.”
Her cheeks burned.
Victor glanced toward her.
“Why spill the wine?”
“You don’t take meetings.”
“Apparently I do when someone destroys a four-thousand-dollar jacket.”
Despite everything, Norah almost smiled.
Victor noticed.
That somehow frightened her more.
The phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
His eyes shifted to Norah.
“How certain?”
Another pause.
“Check archived books.”
He disconnected.
“What?”
Victor said nothing for several seconds.
Then:
“Your brother owes me nothing.”
Norah stared at him.
“That’s impossible.”
“Not one dollar.”
“You’re lying.”
The atmosphere inside the SUV changed.
Victor’s gaze hardened.
Norah realized too late that accusing Victor Russo of lying was probably not a habit associated with long life expectancy.
But he merely said, “Why would I?”
“My brother told me.”
“Your brother disappeared.”
“Because of you.”
“According to whom?”
The question struck harder than she expected.
According to Fineian.
According to the caller.
According to everything she had assumed.
Victor picked up the stained handkerchief.
“Someone used my name to frighten you.”
“Why?”
“That interests me.”
The SUV turned.
Norah looked outside.
They were crossing the river.
“This isn’t the way to my apartment.”
“I never said I was taking you home.”
“You said I was coming home with you.”
“I was very specific.”
Her stomach dropped.
“Stop the car.”
“No.”
“Victor—”
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
She realized she had used his first name.
“Mr. Russo.”
“Worse.”
“Stop the car.”
“Someone threatened you while pretending to represent me. Your brother vanished. Tonight you walked through my security detail with enough nerve to deliberately assault me in front of two hundred witnesses.”
“With wine.”
“A devastating vintage.”
She almost laughed again and hated herself for it.
Victor’s mouth moved by perhaps half an inch.
Then his expression vanished.
“You’re either involved,” he said, “or someone wants me to believe you are.”
“I’m not.”
“Then coming with me is currently the safest option available to you.”
“Safe?”
Norah stared at the wine staining his chest.
“With you?”
His answer was immediate.
“Yes.”
Twenty minutes later, wrought-iron gates opened before the SUV.
Victor’s home was not what Norah expected.
No marble lions.
No gold fountains.
It was a sprawling stone house overlooking the river, severe and dark, with warm lights behind tall windows.
Security cameras followed the vehicle.
Men stood beneath the covered entrance.
The moment Victor stepped out, one approached.
“Boss.”
Victor opened Norah’s door himself.
She hesitated.
“Your choice,” he said quietly. “Stay inside all night or come learn who used my name.”
Norah got out.
Inside, the house smelled faintly of cedar and coffee.
Victor removed his jacket.
His white shirt was stained red.
A housekeeper appeared, saw Norah, saw the wine, and froze.
Victor handed her the jacket.
“Occupational hazard.”
The older woman’s mouth twitched.
“Of course, Mr. Russo.”
Norah stared after her.
“Did you just make a joke?”
“No.”
“You did.”
“I strongly advise against spreading that rumor.”
For the first time in six days, Norah laughed.
It lasted only a second.
Then a man rushed into the foyer.
Broken nose.
The bodyguard from the gala.
“Victor.”
He held a tablet.
“We found something.”
Victor took it.
Norah watched his face change.
Not much.
But enough.
“What?”
He turned the screen toward her.
A security photograph showed Fineian entering a warehouse three nights earlier.
Alive.
Beside him stood a man Norah recognized.
Councilman Peter Vale.
The perspiring politician who had been speaking to Victor immediately before she spilled the wine.
Norah’s knees weakened.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
Victor enlarged the photograph.
Vale was passing Fineian an envelope.
Victor looked at Norah.
“You walked into that ballroom believing you were blackmailing me into saving your brother.”
“Yes.”
“But someone made certain you would find me tonight.”
Cold spread through her.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you weren’t the only person with a plan.”
A telephone rang somewhere deeper in the house.
One of Victor’s men answered.
Seconds later, his expression changed.
“Boss.”
Victor turned.
The man covered the receiver.
“There’s been a fire.”
“Where?”
“Warehouse fourteen.”
Victor looked back at the photograph.
The warehouse behind Fineian.
“Casualties?”
“Two bodies so far.”
Norah gripped the edge of the table.
“My brother?”
“They can’t identify them yet.”
Victor was already reaching for his coat.
Norah caught his wrist.
Every man in the foyer froze.
Even Norah seemed shocked by what she had done.
Victor looked at her hand.
Then at her face.
“Take me with you.”
“No.”
“He’s my brother.”
“And if whoever started that fire expects you to appear, you become leverage.”
“I’m already leverage!”
Victor stared at her.
Something moved behind the exhaustion in his eyes.
Recognition, perhaps.
He understood desperation because somewhere in his life, he had worn it too.
Finally he turned toward broken nose.
“Gabriel.”
“Yeah?”
“Get her a coat.”
Norah released Victor.
Gabriel frowned.
“You’re taking her?”
Victor looked at the red stain across his shirt.
“She ruined my favorite suit.”
Norah blinked.
“That was your favorite?”
“No.”
Gabriel actually laughed.
Victor ignored him.
Then his phone vibrated.
A message appeared.
He read it once.
Every trace of humor disappeared.
Victor handed the phone to Norah.
Unknown number.
One photograph.
Fineian, tied to a chair.
Alive.
May you like
Beneath it were six words.
BRING RUSSO, OR YOUR BROTHER DIES.
