Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Victor
Three a.m. at the New York harbor. The wind cut hard, carrying the icy bite of Atlantic spray. The air reeked—dead fish, diesel, rotting kelp all mixed together.
Dock Three sat bleached white under the high beams of several black SUVs. Luca and a few of his men stood between two massive blue shipping containers, their faces grim as they talked. When they spotted me approaching, they immediately stepped aside, clearing a path.
"Right there, boss." Luca pointed at the ground.
I looked down. Luca's flashlight beam fell straight onto the corpse.
A body that had been in the water a long time.
Or rather, a pile of bloated, pale meat.
The clothes had completely rotted away, plastered against swollen skin.
The body had no face. Facial features had been completely destroyed by something heavy, leaving only a bloody cavity.
Several broken ribs jutted through the skin of the chest at grotesque angles, bone white and exposed.
My gaze moved from that pulp of flesh, coldly scanning the torso's frame, shoulder width, overall build.
The size, the height, and that old fracture on the left wrist bone—it all matched.
Richard. Evelyn's father. That high-level politician who'd wielded so much power in New York politics, full of schemes and calculations. Now lying in the harbor mud like a dead dog.
He'd clearly been tortured before death. Those mud-caked hands—all ten fingernails ripped out, exposing dark red, rotting cavities. The bastards had put him through prolonged, brutal interrogation before killing him.
"Based on physical characteristics, ninety percent certain it's Mr. Gray.
" Luca handed me a mask. "And we just caught the guy who dumped the body.
Bottom-feeder. Got paid a large sum of cash to move this corpse from a refrigerated truck into the water.
But the tide brought it back against the breakwater. "
"Where is he?" I didn't take the mask, just stared at him coldly.
"Abandoned auto shop two kilometers away. The boys are 'taking care' of him."
"Take me there."
Twenty minutes later, we kicked open the corrugated metal door of that abandoned shop.
The air inside was thick. Motor oil, piss, and heavy blood all mixed together, nauseating. A dingy incandescent bulb swung from the rafters, casting swaying shadows. In that light, a skeletal man was tied to a rusted iron chair with a rope.
His face had been beaten into something unrecognizable, blood dripping from his chin onto the filthy concrete.
I took off my coat and tossed it to one of my men. Then I undid my collar button and rolled my sleeves methodically to above my elbows.
This level of interrogation didn't require my personal involvement, but right now I desperately needed some bloody violence to vent the terrible, festering mood that had been building for days.
The man forced his swollen eyes open to look at me. In that instant, I was certain—he recognized me.
"Mr... Mr. Moretti," he spat out blood mixed with teeth, his voice shaking violently. "I don't know... I really don't know anything. I just took money for a job. Someone called me, told me to dispose of a package."
Expected answer.
I walked to the nearby tool bench, picked up a heavy oil-stained hammer.
"Put his left hand on the table." My voice was ice.
Two burly men immediately moved forward, pinning the man's shoulders from both sides. Another yanked out his left hand, pressing it hard against the greasy iron tabletop.
"No! No! Please!" The man let out a pig-squeal of terror, thrashing. "I really didn't know there was a person inside! I didn't know it was a politician! Let me go!"
Expressionless, I raised the hammer, aimed at his index finger, and brought it down hard.
The sharp crack of shattering bone. The man released a piercing scream, his body convulsing like he'd been electrocuted.
"I've got time. You can think slowly."
I raised the hammer again.
"I'll talk! I'll talk!" He completely broke, tears and snot streaming as he screamed. "It was Marcus! Marcus's people contacted me! They're in that underground warehouse on Fourteenth Street in Brooklyn! That's where they gave me the money!"
Of course it was him.
"Send people to verify that address." I stopped, tossed the hammer back onto the bench. "If it's real, make it quick. If it's fake, break every bone he's got left inch by inch."
"Got it, boss." Luca nodded.
I checked my watch. Four thirty a.m.
Richard was dead. Marcus and his crew were definitely scrambling right now, trying to destroy evidence and move assets. I had to lead a raid on that warehouse immediately, drag Marcus out, pull up all the moles by the roots. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
I pulled open the SUV door. The moment I sat down, Evelyn's face filled my mind.
Richard's death had been brutal. That photo, the bloody scene, the rotting corpse at the dock just now. If Evelyn knew what torture her father had endured, if she knew the truth she'd been desperately seeking ended with a faceless pile of meat—
What would happen to her? That slender body couldn't withstand that kind of devastating blow.
"Boss, the strike team's assembled. Do we head to Brooklyn now?" Luca came over for orders.
I stared at the dark street, jaw clenched. "Take a team to Brooklyn. Keep eyes on that warehouse. Tell Dmitri to prep weapons and enough men. I'm going back to the manor. I'll meet up with you in an hour."
Luca looked at me with surprise, but immediately bowed his head in obedience. Leaving the front line at a moment like this wasn't my style, but I couldn't control myself.
I had to see her.
No matter what, the conflict between her and Caroline was real. I'd left her alone in that hostile environment, ignored her eyes begging for help when she wasn't feeling well.
I was a bastard.
I drove back to the manor at the fastest speed of my life.
I pushed open the bedroom door. Empty. The bed was made perfectly, no sign anyone had slept there. Intense panic shot from my feet to my head. Where was she? I spun around, ready to storm out and interrogate tonight's guards.
Then I heard it.
From the private bathroom at the end of the hall—faint, labored breathing. Then a pained retch.
I strode over immediately and shoved the door open.
Evelyn was there. Barefoot, curled in the darkest corner by the sink. She wore only a thin silk nightgown, the hem rolled up to her thighs, exposing pale, bloodless skin.
She was violently dry-heaving over the toilet.
Evelyn retched hard, her whole back convulsing. But nothing came up—only clear acid dripping from her pale chin onto the marble tile.
"Evelyn? What's wrong?"
I rushed over, scooped her up from the cold floor, and pulled her tight against me.
The moment I touched her skin, I gasped. She was freezing. Like ice. Almost no warmth at all.
At my touch, Evelyn slowly raised her head to look at me.
That face.
Deathly pale, not a trace of color. Cold sweat beaded her forehead. Her eyes were swollen beyond recognition, ringed with sickly red, bloodshot.
Evelyn stared at me blankly. Three seconds passed before she seemed to register who I was. Her hands shot out, like a drowning person grabbing driftwood, clutching desperately at my collar.
"Is there news?" Her voice was hoarse, pleading.
I looked at her, throat tight. I didn't know how to tell her this terrible news.
"I asked if there's news!" Evelyn's voice suddenly rose, trembling with desperation. "My father—what happened to him?"
I didn't know how to tell her. Richard was dead. And he'd died horribly.
Her body right now was like a wire stretched to breaking point. One more word from me, one more ounce of weight, and she'd snap completely.
I couldn't let that happen.
I was Victor. I was the Don of New York's underworld. I was used to cruelty, used to solving problems with bloody methods. But now, facing this woman trembling in my arms, I felt utterly helpless.
I had to protect her. Whatever it took.
I raised my right hand, pressed my palm against the back of her head, forced her face into the curve of my neck against my warm skin.
"The trail went cold."
Evelyn went rigid in my arms.
"The mole ran." I kept my voice controlled, even. "We came up empty. But no news is good news. At least it means he's still alive."
Evelyn's tense, resistant body suddenly went completely limp.
The strength that had been clutching my collar vanished. Her hands fell weakly against my chest, her whole weight collapsing into my arms.
I didn't know how to comfort her. Words felt pathetically inadequate. All I could do was repeat silently—as long as she took care of herself, once I dealt with everything outside, I'd find a way to make up for this lie.
I heard something escape from deep in Evelyn's throat—two dry, ugly sounds that might have been bitter laughter.
Then the bathroom fell into deathly silence.
She stopped shaking. Stopped asking questions with that stubborn desperation.
This sudden stillness unsettled me more than her earlier hysteria. I'd rather have her telling me about her grievances, fighting with me like crazy, than this lifeless silence.
I tightened my arms and held her closer. Tried to force my warmth into her frozen body. I had to change this goddamn subject. Couldn't let her keep drowning in Richard's disappearance.
"You said this afternoon you weren't feeling well." I lowered my head, lips almost touching her ear. "What's going on? Where does it hurt? Why are you on the floor in the middle of the night throwing up? Did a doctor see you?"
Evelyn didn't answer right away.
She looked at me. Those bloodshot eyes held no light. A tear slid from the corner of her red-rimmed eye, down her pale cheek, and landed on the back of my hand braced against the floor.
That tear was scalding. It burned straight through my skin, seared directly into my heart.
Then the corner of her mouth slowly, painfully curved upward.
"It's nothing," Evelyn said softly. "It doesn't matter anymore."
My heart clenched. I hated seeing her like this. I despised this expression—it felt like she was slipping through my fingers and I was powerless to stop it.
I had to fix this. Fast.
I'd twist Marcus's head off myself. Clean out every mole.
Once I'd eliminated every threat, once I'd ensured absolute safety, I'd find the right moment to tell her about Richard's death. Slowly. And I'd be there with her through the worst of it.