CHAPTER 22 MARSHS MASTERSTROKE #3
Dario reached over and muted the TV. His expression didn't change, but the tendons in his forearm stood out like cables.
Vincent laughed—a low, ugly sound. "Immunity." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the frozen image of Evelyn's face. "You think that'll stop a bullet?"
Daniel Marsh, the federal prosecutor smirking behind his podium on screen, kept talking to a sea of microphones. Evelyn's throat closed. The ticker at the bottom of the screen updated: Sources: Crane recordings central to grand jury proceedings.
"Those don't exist," she said, too fast.
Dario's gaze cut to her. "You sure?"
New Rule-Clue:
- Grand jury leaks are deliberate. Someone wants her dead before she can testify.
Anthony Moretti hadn't moved from his chair in the corner. When he spoke, his voice was mild. "Daniel Marsh just painted a target on your back, Ms. Crane. And my brother's." He tilted his head toward Vincent. "Question is—who benefits from that?"
Vincent's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Everyone."
Dominic, silent until now, tossed his phone onto the table. The screen showed a blurry shot of Evelyn entering a nondescript office building—the federal courthouse's rear entrance. "This hit Twitter twenty minutes ago."
Evelyn's pulse hammered in her ears. Her reputation wasn't just burning—it was being used as kindling for something bigger. And the man who'd lit the match was grinning at her from every screen in the city.
Dario unmuted the television. Daniel Marsh's voice filled the room again, smooth as polished glass. "—no further comment at this time, but rest assured, justice will be served."
Vincent stood. "So will mine."
Evelyn’s breath caught as Vincent crossed the room toward her, his shoes clicking against the hardwood. He stopped just short of her chair, close enough that she could smell the cologne he’d worn the night they met—spice and something sharper, like gun oil.
"Look at me," he said.
She didn’t.
His fingers closed around her chin, forcing her head up. The television’s glow reflected in his eyes, turning them into flat, dark mirrors. "You lied to my face for months. You wore my ring. You let me—" He cut himself off, jaw working.
Dario shifted behind him, but Anthony raised a hand, subtle. Wait.
Evelyn swallowed. "I didn’t have a choice."
Vincent’s thumb brushed her lower lip, feather-light. "Neither do I."
The silence stretched. Then Dominic cleared his throat. "We got movement outside. Two cars just parked at the end of the block—no plates."
Anthony sighed, rubbing his temple. "Of course." He stood, straightening his cuffs. "Vincent. We need to go. Now."
Vincent didn’t move. His grip on Evelyn tightened. "You’re coming with us."
She jerked back. "Like hell."
Dario stepped forward, blocking the door. "You really think Marsh’s gonna protect you after this? They leaked those photos to flush you out. You walk out alone, you’re dead before sunrise."
The television flickered—another update. A reporter stood outside Evelyn’s apartment building, yellow tape cordoning off the entrance. "—authorities have not confirmed reports of gunfire, but sources say—"
Dominic cursed. "They’re hitting all your known locations. You got anywhere else?"
Evelyn’s mouth went dry. There was one place. A safehouse Marsh had set up, just in case. But if she led them there—
Vincent leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "Tick-tock, sweetheart."
Outside, an engine revved. Too close.
Anthony checked his watch. "Last chance, Ms. Crane."
She closed her eyes. "I know a place."
Vincent smiled. "Knew you’d see reason."
Dario tossed her a jacket. "Move fast. And don’t look back."
The front door burst open before they reached it.
The reporter’s voice crackled through the phone left in Evelyn’s abandoned car. “—confirmed explosion at the Crane Technologies headquarters. Authorities are calling it a targeted attack—”
Dario snatched the phone and crushed it under his boot. “That’s your civilian life obliterated, Miss Crane.” He didn’t look at her. His attention was on the security feed playing on Dominic’s tablet—flames engulfing the lobby where she’d worked for six years. “No severance package.”
Vincent gripped her elbow, steering her past the broken door into the safehouse. The scent of gun oil and stale coffee clung to the walls. A single lightbulb flickered over a map of the city pinned with red tacks—every place connected to her. Crossed out.
Anthony tossed a file onto the table. Passports. Bank statements. Her face on every page. “Daniel Marsh filed the police report an hour ago. Claims you embezzled company funds before disappearing.” He flipped open a folder—doctored spreadsheets, forged signatures. “Convincing work.”
“I didn’t—” Evelyn’s throat closed. The apartment keys in her pocket dug into her thigh. Useless now. The yellow tape across her building’s entrance flashed behind her eyelids.
Dominic leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Your name’s trending. Cops think you’re a thief. Press thinks you’re dead.” He jerked his chin at the muted TV—her employee badge photo beside the words ‘Person of Interest.’ “Either way, Evelyn Crane doesn’t exist anymore.”
Vincent’s thumb brushed the pulse point in her wrist. Not comfort—a test. “Regret’s expensive. Can you afford it?”
Outside, a car backfired. Evelyn flinched. The Morettis didn’t move. They’d known it wasn’t gunfire.
Dario smoothed a crease from his sleeve. “Your choices are simple. Walk out that door—” He nodded toward the window where headlights swept the alley. “Or earn protection.”
The headlights lingered too long. Unmarked sedan. No plates.
Anthony tapped the file. “They’ll give you twelve years for the fraud. Minimum.” Vincent’s grip tightened. “If you live to trial.”
Evelyn stared at the smoldering ruins on the tablet. Her coffee mug. Her security badge. Her name in flames. The bulb overhead buzzed like a trapped fly. Dario waited.
A new rule: in this room, hesitation was as damning as refusal.
She reached for the file.
Dominic smiled.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the folder just as the headlights outside cut off. The sudden darkness made the safehouse feel smaller, the air thicker with gun oil and the sharp tang of Dominic’s cologne.
Vincent released her wrist, but his gaze didn’t waver. "Smart girl."
Anthony flipped open the next page—a grainy surveillance still of her at an ATM two nights ago. The timestamp was wrong. She’d been home, microwaving leftovers. The evidence was seamless. "They’ll bury you under this," he said. "Unless we unbury you first."
Dario plucked a red tack from the city map and pressed it into the table beside her stolen passport.
"Your landlord already packed up your apartment. Boxed it all up nice and neat for the cops to pick through."
He rolled the tack between his fingers. "Guess they’ll find those burner phones you’ve been stashing. The ones tied to offshore accounts."
Evelyn’s stomach twisted. She’d never owned a burner phone in her life.
Dominic pushed off the doorframe and grabbed the remote, unmuting the TV.
A news anchor’s voice filled the room, crisp and rehearsed.
"—authorities confirm traces of industrial-grade accelerant at the Crane Technologies site. An anonymous tip led investigators to a storage locker rented under Evelyn Crane’s name, containing—"
The screen cut to shaky cellphone footage of a metal locker, its door hanging open. Inside, stacked bricks of something wrapped in plastic. Not her storage locker. Not her anything.
Vincent exhaled, almost amused. "Arson. Embezzlement. Narcotics." He tilted his head. "What’s next? Human trafficking?"
The bulb flickered again, casting jagged shadows across their faces.
Dario dropped the tack. It bounced once before rolling off the table. "You’re a one-woman crime spree, Crane."
Outside, an engine idled. Too quiet for a cop car. Too close for comfort.
Anthony slid a burner phone across the table. "Call your sister."
Evelyn went rigid.
Dominic grinned. "What? You thought we wouldn’t check?"
The phone’s screen lit up with a familiar number—Megan’s last-known contact, the one Evelyn hadn’t dared use in months.
Vincent leaned in. "Tell her you’re safe. That you’ll explain later." His voice was soft. Deadly. "Or don’t. See how long it takes for them to track her down instead."
The TV switched to a press conference. Her old boss, red-eyed at a podium, describing how she’d "played them all."
Evelyn picked up the phone.
The Morettis watched, silent, as she broke the only thread she had left.