Chapter 2 - THE VOICE ON MY SON'S PHONE
For one second, I stopped hearing the rain.
Stopped feeling the pain in my wrist.
Stopped seeing Thomas standing in front of me.
There was only the phone pressed against my ear.
And the stranger who had just told me he had Marcus.
“Let me talk to him.”
My voice didn't sound like mine.
The man laughed.
“Straight to business.”
“Let me hear my son.”
Thomas's expression changed instantly.
He stepped closer.
I held up one hand.
Don't.
He stopped.
Then I heard Marcus crying.
“Mom?”
My knees nearly gave out.
“Baby, I'm here.”
“Mom, I don't know where—”
The phone was taken away.
The stranger returned.
“Now you know he's alive.”
“Where is he?”
“You'll get instructions.”
“If you hurt him—”
“You'll do what?”
I couldn't breathe.
The man continued.
“Listen carefully. Don't call the police. Don't bring Dinaro.”
I looked at Thomas.
His face went cold.
The caller knew he was with me.
That meant someone was watching us.
Thomas's eyes shifted toward the buildings.
Searching.
“Tomorrow. Noon. Central Park. Bethesda Terrace.”
“What do you want?”
The man paused.
“Something your mother stole.”
My entire body turned cold.
“What?”
“Ask Dinaro.”
The call ended.
I stood frozen.
Then Thomas took the phone gently from my hand.
“Marcus?”
I nodded.
“He's been taken.”
His expression hardened.
“By who?”
“They said not to bring you.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“I don't know.”
“What did they want?”
I stared at him.
“Something my mother stole.”
Thomas went still.
The silence between us changed.
“You know what they're talking about.”
He didn't answer quickly enough.
I grabbed his coat.
“What did she steal?”
“Jean—”
“My son was kidnapped because of something you know.”
My voice cracked.
“Tell me.”
Thomas looked at my hand gripping his lapel.
Then at my face.
Finally, he said, “A ledger.”
I laughed bitterly.
Of course.
There was always a ledger in stories about men like Thomas.
“What kind?”
“One that could destroy families.”
“Whose family?”
“Mine.”
My stomach twisted.
Thomas continued.
“Thirty-one years ago, my father kept handwritten records of everything. Judges. police officers. politicians. businesses. Payoffs. murders. property.”
“And my mother took it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she was planning to run.”
“With your brother?”
Thomas looked away.
That was answer enough.
I stepped back.
“You think he was my father.”
“I don't know.”
“You just said I have his eyes.”
“I said I think I know who you are. That's different.”
My anger exploded.
“My son is missing and you're speaking in riddles.”
Thomas's gaze snapped back to mine.
“You're right.”
The apology surprised me.
He pulled out his phone.
“I'm getting Marcus back.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“They said not to bring you.”
“And you're going to trust the people who kidnapped an eight-year-old?”
“No.”
“Then why are you—”
“Because if they see you involved, they might hurt him.”
Thomas's voice dropped.
“They won't see me.”
There was a certainty in his tone that frightened me.
Then a black SUV turned into the alley.
Two men stepped out.
Thomas moved in front of me automatically.
One of the men raised both hands.
“Boss.”
Thomas relaxed slightly.
“Vincent?”
“Security footage from the restaurant is secured. Richard Hail left through the side entrance.”
I stared.
“The man who attacked me?”
Vincent nodded.
Thomas asked, “Where did he go?”
“That's the problem.”
“What?”
“He got into a car registered to Damian Russo.”
Thomas's face changed.
“Russo?”
Vincent nodded.
I looked between them.
“Who is Damian Russo?”
Neither answered.
I stepped forward.
“My son is gone. I'm done being protected from information.”
Thomas looked at me.
Then he said,
“Damian Russo is the man who believes my brother was murdered.”
My stomach tightened.
“And?”
“He believes Elena killed him.”
I stared.
“My mother?”
Thomas's expression darkened.
“Yes.”
Then Vincent handed him a tablet.
A grainy security image appeared.
Richard Hail entering a black sedan.
Beside the car stood a tall man with gray hair.
Thomas went completely still.
“What?”
He stared at the screen.
“That's impossible.”
“Who is it?”
Thomas didn't answer.
I grabbed the tablet.
The man beside the sedan looked older.
Harder.
But familiar.
I looked at the old photograph still in my hand.
The missing face had been torn away.
Yet the build.
The posture.
The eyes.
Thomas whispered,
“My brother.”
My breath stopped.
“The man you said disappeared?”
“Yes.”
May you like
Thomas's face drained of color.
“Apparently, he never died.”
