Chapter 4 - The Midtown TrapTwenty-five minutes later, my black sedan pulled up outside the fifty-story glass tower on Madison Avenue that housed Romano Holdings & Financial Services. The rain had started again, slicking the pavement and reflecting the neon signs of the city in blurred streaks of red and yellow.
Vincent was waiting for me in the lobby, flanked by two armed enforcers. He handed me a heavy leather briefcase as I walked through the revolving doors.
“The building is sealed, boss,” Vincent reported, walking beside me toward the private elevator banks. “Security guards at the front and back exits have been relieved by our men. No police have been called. Marcus is still up on the thirty-second floor working in his private suite.”
“Did you get the ledgers?” I asked, stepping into the elevator.
“Every single file from his wall safe,” Vincent said, tapping the briefcase. “And boss... you’re going to want to see what’s inside. It’s not just tax fraud. It’s a complete double-cross. He’s been selling our shipping manifests to the Russian syndicate in Brighton Beach for eighteen months.”
The elevator bell chimed softly as we reached the thirty-second floor. The hallway was dark, save for the emergency exit lights and the faint glow of city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Marcus’s office door was ajar, a warm sliver of light spilling out onto the carpet.
I pushed the door open without knocking.
Marcus was sitting at his sleek glass desk, typing furiously on his laptop. He looked up, expecting an assistant or a junior analyst, but when he saw me standing in the doorway with Vincent and two armed men behind me, the color drained entirely from his face.
“Dominic,” Marcus forced a nervous, high-pitched laugh, standing up and smoothing his tie. “You’re... you’re back early. I thought you were inspecting the container yards in New Jersey today.”
I walked slowly into the room, placing my leather gloves on his desk.
“Plans changed, Marcus,” I said smoothly. “I came home early. And you know what happens when you come home unexpectedly?”
Marcus swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing violently. “I... I don't know what you mean.”
“My daughters spoke to me today,” I continued, my voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. “First time in fourteen months. Do you know what they told me, Marcus?”
Marcus stepped back until his legs hit the edge of the glass desk. “Dominic, listen to me—whatever you’ve heard—”
“They told me the man who killed Isabelle is still walking around,” I interrupted, stepping closer. “They even showed me a video. A little digital camera they found in her personal effects box. A video recorded in the preschool parking lot right before the shots were fired.”
Marcus’s eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated terror. He looked at the briefcase in Vincent’s hand, then back at me.
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“You dropped your ring, Marcus,” I whispered, pulling the heavy platinum signet ring out of my pocket and dropping it onto his glass desk with a sharp clack.
The ring rolled across the smooth surface and stopped against his laptop keyboard.
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