Chapter 2 - NICO HAD BEEN LIED TO TOO
The prosecutor’s name was Rebecca Shaw.
Assistant U.S. Attorney.
Southern District of New York.
The fact that my father had her number hidden inside his desk should have frightened me more.
Instead, what frightened me was her tone.
“What do you mean Nico wasn’t supposed to agree?”
“Your father approached his family six months ago.”
“Six months?”
I had learned about the marriage forty-eight hours before the ceremony.
Nico had apparently been living beside the arrangement for half a year.
“What did my father offer?”
“I don’t know everything.”
“That seems popular.”
Rebecca ignored the sarcasm.
“What I know is that James Hart believed somebody inside Hart Meridian was moving money through Caruso-controlled construction projects.”
My stomach tightened.
“Dirty money?”
“Maybe stolen money.”
“From whom?”
“Pension funds. Municipal contracts. Infrastructure grants.”
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“How much?”
“At least one hundred forty million.”
I closed my eyes.
My father had told me the threat was not about money.
Technically true.
It was about enough money to kill people over.
“What does Nico know?”
“That your father needed protection.”
“That’s it?”
“We think so.”
“You think?”
“Evelyn, Nicholas Caruso is not exactly known for cooperating with federal prosecutors.”
Fair.
I hung up ten minutes later with instructions I had no intention of obeying completely.
Do not investigate alone.
Do not access Caruso systems.
Do not confront your father.
Stay protected.
Everyone loved telling me to stay somewhere.
Nobody seemed interested in letting me understand why.
The next morning, I found Nico in the breakfast room.
Dark suit.
No tie.
Black coffee.
He glanced at the constitutional law casebook under my arm.
“What’s that?”
“My coursework.”
His expression changed.
“You’re still in school?”
I stared at him.
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“Law.”
He actually looked surprised.
“Columbia?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you—”
“Went there for parties?”
He said nothing.
“Go ahead.”
His jaw tightened.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
For the first time, something like embarrassment crossed his face.
“I knew you were enrolled.”
“Clearly not in anything academically demanding.”
He looked at the casebook again.
“You’re in your final year?”
“Yes.”
“Why was that not in the family file?”
I froze.
“Family file?”
His expression told me he realized his mistake too late.
“What file?”
Nico set down his cup.
“The Carusos vetted you.”
“How romantic.”
“It was not romantic.”
“No. Apparently not.”
“What did they tell you?”
“Your social history. Public profile. Family assets.”
“Anything about school?”
“Only that you were completing a degree.”
“Anything about internships?”
“No.”
Good.
Because last summer I had spent twelve weeks inside the Manhattan District Attorney’s public-integrity unit under my mother’s maiden name.
My father did not know.
Nobody in society did.
I had helped review procurement fraud cases involving construction bidding.
Including one file that suddenly felt extremely important.
Hart Meridian Infrastructure Partners.
I went upstairs.
Opened my encrypted school drive.
Found the old internship folder.
There it was.
A subcontractor I had flagged for repeated irregularities:
Bellweather Civic Solutions.
At the time, the supervisor said another team would handle it.
I opened corporate ownership data.
Parent entity:
Moretti Atlantic Holdings.
Not Caruso.
Not Hart.
Moretti.
A rival family.
Then I found a note from the internship file.
Confidential witness claimed Hart Meridian executive was facilitating payments with help from someone inside the Caruso organization.
My pulse jumped.
Someone inside both families.
Then a shadow crossed beneath my door.
I looked up.
Nico stood outside.
He knocked once.
“Evelyn.”
I minimized the screen.
“Yes?”
“There’s something you need to see.”
“What?”
He opened the door only after I said come in.
Good.
“Your father sent me the threat files.”
“Finally.”
“No.”
Nico looked grim.
“He sent me only one.”
He handed me a photograph.
Taken three months earlier.
Me.
Leaving the district attorney’s office.
Underneath, handwritten:
WE KNOW WHAT SHE’S REALLY DOING.
May you like
Whoever wanted me dead did not think I was a spoiled heiress.
They knew I had been investigating.
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