Alex read the message until the words were carved in his skull.
'You will do exactly what I demand or I will be sending Tony and Victoria an early Christmas present.'
His mind raced around, thinking of who it might be.
He looked down at Victoria. She was sleeping peacefully, her breathing so shallow it was almost nonexistent. Even in sleep, her ambition felt like a physical weight in the room; cold, sharp and lethal.
His hands trembled as he typed a frantic reply: Who is this? What do you want?
The reply flashed instantly, glowing like a threat in the dark: Hunthouse. Tomorrow. Noon. Come alone.
***
At the penthouse, the sun hadn't yet begun to rise over the Manhattan skyline, but Emily was already awake.
She hadn't slept. Sleep was for people who weren't sharing beds with the enemy. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the Vantura files. She saw the date of her father's death and the massive payment Tony had made to Dave Cosgrove's offshore company three days later.
She stood at her dressing table, pulling her hair back into a ponytail so tight it hurt. She looked at her reflection and barely recognized the woman staring back. The softness was gone. The hope she'd felt in the garden, the way she'd let Alex's lips convince her that a 'new world' was possible, was just a fever dream she'd finally woken up from.
"He knew," she whispered to her reflection. "He pretended to be the good guy so she could let her guard down with him."
There has to be someone else she can trust, she thought, her pulse thrumming. Uncle Scott.
Scott had been her father's closest friend, the only man who knew all his dealings. If her father had left any trail, Scott would know. She reached for her phone, then paused, her eyes darting to the corners of the walls. Tony's reach was everywhere.
Not here, she decided, slipping the phone into her waistband. I'll make the call outside. If Tony finds out I'm digging, I'm as dead as my father.
She turned and walked out the door, her eyes shimmering with zeal to fight.
As she walked down the stairs, the elevation chimed. Alex stepped out.
His face lit up for a minute when he saw her, but it died the moment he caught her expression. She was in her running gear, her movements sharp, her eyes like daggers.
"Emily," Alex said, stepping into her path. "We need to talk. Someone knows about-"
Emily didn't even slow down; she reached for the elevator. Her face was a blank slate, wiped clean of every memory they shared. "I'm not interested in what you have to say, Alex. And I don't want to have anything to do with you again."
"Wait," he grabbed her arm, his fingers brushing the cool skin of her wrist. "What is going on with you?"
Emily wrenched her arm away, her voice dropping to a low, lethal whisper. "If you don't let go, I will scream so loud your uncle will come running. Then you can explain to him why you are clutching his wife's hand."
Alex flinched. "Emily, what did I do?"
"How about you drop the pretense and be a proud Torredo," her voice a low, lethal whisper. "I saw the files. You knew about Cosgrove and you partnered with him and lied to my face. Stay away from me, Alex. I'm done being a tool in your manipulation scheme."
Alex's eyes are full of regret. "Emily, I can explain."
The elevator doors slid shut. Alex stood paralyzed in the foyer, the weight of the blackmail fading behind a much sharper pain: the look of utter hatred in her eyes. Then he realized the flash drive, his 'peace offering', is the very thing she's using to convict him. He handed her the gun, and now she's pointing it at him.
***
Emily pushed her legs until they burned, diving into a narrow, overgrown path that snaked deep into the park. Only when the penthouse was a distant, glinting needle in the skyline did she stop. She collapsed onto a secluded bench, her lungs gasping for fresh air.
With trembling hands, she pulled out her phone. Her thumb hovered over the search bar. Scott Raymond.
The results were sparse, he'd gone off the grid years ago, but a deep-web forum for retired associates gave her a lead.
She hit the call button.
The ringing was a dull, rhythmic torture. One. Two. Three—
"Hello?" The voice was gravel and old smoke.
"Scott Raymond? It's Emily. Emily Lawson."
A heavy, suffocating silence from the other end of the line. She could hear him breathing, but it was like talking to a ghost.
"Uncle Scott, please," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I just want to ask a few questions about how my father died and I promise I won't bother you again."
Another long, agonizing beat of silence. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded like a well rehearsed flat tone.
"I know you miss him, Emily. We all do. It was an unfortunate accident. Grief does strange things to the mind, try not to let it ruin yours."
"Don't do that!" she hissed, standing up and pacing the dirt path. "Don't treat me like I'm fragile."
"Your father loved the old mill by the black creek" Scott said suddenly, his tone shifting into something sharp. "He loved to visit there at noon. If you ever want to feel close to him, you should visit."
"What? Uncle Scott, I don't-"
Click. The line went dead.
Emily stared at the screen, her eyes darting in confusion. Her father hated the old mill. Uncle Scott knew that. He'd been there when her father swore he'd never step foot on that rotting property again.
Then it hit her.
It wasn't a suggestion. It was a code. Scott was terrified to speak, so he had indirectly asked her to come and noon was the time.
Emily checked her phone, it was 10am. She had time to make it to Black Creek by noon and enough time to return to the penthouse before Tony noticed her absence.
She wove through the crowded terminal, her heart beating fast. Every suit in the crowd looked like a spy for Tony.
"Ticket to Black Creek," she told the clerk, her voice a steady blade.
As the bus pulled away, the city's grip loosened. The mill was where her father's woes started. Now, it was the only place for her to begin her fight for her freedom.
***
By noon, Alex arrived at Hunthouse.
The scent of gunpowder and pine needles were thick in the air. It was an outdoor shooting range, a place where the crack of a rifle could mask the sound of a scream. Each crack of a distant rifle felt like a heartbeat to Alex.
Alex paced the edge of the range, his boots crunching on spent shell casings.
"I'm here!" he yelled. "Show yourself!"
"You always were impatient, Alex."
Alex spun around. His heart stopped. Standing by the equipment shed, wearing a smirk as sharp as a razor, was Dave Cosgrove with his bodyguards surrounding and ready to take action if the need arose.
"Mr. Cosgrove" Alex swallowed hard. "You saw us?"
"Please call me Dave." Cosgrove said, leaning against a wooden post. "I like to keep tabs on the people I work with. It prevents... misunderstandings."
Alex's face went void of emotions. "What do you want?"
"Loyalty," Cosgrove replied, leaning in. "My little birds tell me you have issues with working with me."
"Considering your reputation," Alex said defensively.
Cosgrove let out a short hollow laugh. "Your uncle and I have come a long way. It will be a shame if I can't rely on you to continue the business well. Stay close to your phone, I hate to be kept waiting when I have a demand to make."
Cosgrove turned, walking away.
"One more thing," he stopped. "What is Emily doing at the Old mill at Black Creek?"
Alex froze in shock. "How did…"
"Tabs, Alex. I keep tabs." Cosgrove tucked his phone away. "You should warn her. The mill is a lonely place for a girl to go looking for ghosts. And ghosts... they don't like being disturbed same way your uncle hated to hear what she was up to."
Cosgrove signaled to his men and began to walk toward a waiting SUV, leaving Alex standing in the heat of the range.
Alex's blood turned to ice. He looked at his watch. 12:15 PM. She was already there. He fumbled for his phone, his pulse thudding in his ears as he dialed her number.
Ring. Ring. Voicemail.
Alex realizes he only had one option left: he had to reach Emily before Tony did. Because if her husband caught her at that mill, it could be the end of her life.