Chapter 2 - The Man Behind the Glass
Vincent moved before anyone else.
“Down.”
Alina grabbed Mia.
Marco drew his weapon.
The man behind the glass turned and ran.
Vincent shouted, “Alive!”
Two guards entered the foyer.
A third raced around the side entrance.
Vincent stayed with Alina.
That frightened her more than if he had chased the intruder himself.
“Who is he?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You employ everyone here.”
“I know.”
The answer chilled her.
Mia was trembling.
Vincent crouched beside her.
“Can you tell me what he looked like Tuesday?”
Mia pointed toward the disappearing figure.
“Him.”
“You’re sure?”
“He had the red hand.”
Vincent frowned.
“What red hand?”
Mia rubbed her own wrist.
“Here.”
A tattoo.
Vincent stood.
“Marco, relay it. Red marking on the wrist.”
Seconds later, shouting came from inside.
Then glass shattered.
A radio crackled.
“East corridor!”
Vincent’s expression hardened.
The east corridor led toward the staff apartments.
Toward Alina’s room.
The intruder wasn’t trying to escape.
He was going back for something.
Vincent ordered Alina and Mia into a reinforced security room while he followed his men.
Alina resisted.
“My apartment.”
“You’re not going there.”
“My purse is there. Mia’s documents. Everything.”
“Everything can be replaced.”
“My daughter’s birth certificate can’t.”
“Yes, it can.”
She stared at him.
He leaned closer.
“You can’t.”
That ended the argument.
An hour later, the intruder had vanished.
But someone had entered Alina’s apartment.
Nothing obvious was stolen.
The drawers had been opened.
Her mattress had been moved.
Mia’s toys were scattered across the floor.
Vincent stood inside the tiny bedroom.
His mansion contained thirty-two guest rooms.
Yet Alina and her daughter lived here in two cramped rooms because Alina had never asked for more.
He looked at the wall.
Crayon drawings.
A grocery list.
A photograph of Alina holding newborn Mia.
Another picture had been removed.
A clean rectangle remained on the wall.
“What was there?”
Alina stared.
“A family photo.”
“Who was in it?”
“Me. Mia. Daniel.”
“Your ex-husband?”
“Yes.”
“When did you last speak?”
“Six months ago.”
Vincent looked at her.
“Full name.”
“Daniel Ruiz.”
Vincent glanced at Marco.
“Find him.”
Alina stiffened.
“Daniel has nothing to do with this.”
“You don’t know that.”
“He abandoned us.”
“People disappear for reasons.”
“He stole from me first.”
Vincent paused.
“What?”
She hated telling him.
Daniel had opened credit accounts in her name. Borrowed money. Lied about work.
Vincent listened without interrupting.
“How much?”
“Almost forty thousand.”
“And then he disappeared?”
“Yes.”
Vincent and Marco exchanged a look.
Alina noticed.
“What?”
“Forty thousand is a lot for a man with no job.”
Her stomach tightened.
“You think the debt wasn’t ordinary debt.”
“I think I want to know where the money went.”
Marco’s phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen.
“We found Daniel.”
Alina’s knees almost weakened.
“Where?”
Marco hesitated.
“According to public records, nowhere. He hasn’t used a bank account, credit card, passport, or phone registered under his name in six months.”
Vincent said, “That isn’t disappearing.”
“What is it?”
“Being hidden.”
That evening, Vincent moved Alina and Mia into a guest suite on the mansion’s secure third floor.
Alina hated it.
The room was larger than every apartment she had rented combined.
Mia loved the enormous bed.
Vincent assigned two guards outside.
“No,” Alina said.
He looked at her.
“I don’t want my daughter growing up surrounded by armed men.”
“Tonight she sleeps surrounded by armed men or neither of you sleeps here.”
“You can’t order me around.”
“No.”
His eyes held hers.
“But I can tell you there was an explosive beneath my car, a murdered security officer beneath your apartment, and a stranger inside your bedroom.”
Alina went silent.
Vincent lowered his voice.
“Argue with me tomorrow.”
Mia appeared carrying her broken truck.
“Mr. Vincent?”
He looked down.
“You said you could fix this.”
Alina closed her eyes.
“Mia, now is not—”
“I did.”
Vincent took the truck.
“I’ll have it tomorrow.”
Mia smiled.
It was the first smile anyone had seen all day.
At midnight, Alina woke to movement outside.
She opened the door.
Vincent stood at the end of the corridor with Marco.
They were speaking quietly.
Vincent noticed her.
“Go back inside.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“That sentence has never made anyone worry less.”
Marco almost smiled.
Vincent didn’t.
He held something.
A photograph.
Alina recognized it.
The missing family picture.
“Where did you find that?”
Vincent handed it to her.
“Dawson had it.”
Her hands shook.
The photograph showed Daniel standing behind Alina while she held six-month-old Mia.
Someone had drawn a circle around Daniel’s face.
On the back were three handwritten words.
SHE KNOWS NOTHING.
Alina stared.
“I don’t understand.”
Vincent turned the photograph toward the light.
“There’s more.”
Beneath the words was a number.
Marco said, “We checked Dawson’s phone records. Before he died, he called the same unregistered number seventeen times.”
“Whose?”
“We don’t know.”
Vincent looked at the photograph again.
“But 417 means something.”
Alina’s face changed.
Vincent noticed.
“You recognize it.”
“No.”
“You do.”
She backed away.
“Alina.”
“My old apartment.”
“What about it?”
“Our unit number was 417.”
Vincent went still.
“The apartment you shared with Daniel?”
“Yes.”
“When did you leave?”
“Eight months ago.”
“Immediately before coming here?”
“Yes.”
Vincent looked at Marco.
“Get the address.”
Alina grabbed his arm.
“You’re going there?”
“Yes.”
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“That was my home.”
“That’s exactly why you’re not coming.”
But Alina knew Daniel.
She knew where he hid things.
And for once she refused to be left behind.
Thirty minutes later, Vincent reluctantly allowed her into the armored SUV between two guards.
They reached the old apartment building at 1:12 a.m.
Unit 417 had supposedly been vacant for months.
The superintendent opened it.
Dust covered the floor.
The furniture was gone.
Alina walked toward the kitchen.
“Daniel used to hide cash above the refrigerator.”
Nothing.
Then she noticed a scratch on the baseboard.
She knelt.
A loose panel came away.
Behind it was a small black flash drive.
Vincent took it.
Marco connected it to an isolated laptop.
One folder appeared.
MARCHETTI.
Vincent opened it.
Photographs filled the screen.
His cars.
His estate.
His guards.
His meetings.
Then Alina appeared.
Photographed outside grocery stores.
At playgrounds.
At work.
Mia too.
Hundreds of images.
Alina covered her mouth.
“Daniel was watching us?”
Vincent clicked the final folder.
It contained one video.
The date was six months earlier.
Daniel appeared on screen.
Bruised.
Terrified.
He stared directly into the camera.
“Alina, if you ever see this, take Mia and run. I borrowed money from the wrong people. But the money wasn’t the real reason they wanted me.”
He looked over his shoulder.
“They wanted access to Marchetti.”
Vincent leaned closer.
Daniel continued.
“They knew you were applying for housekeeping jobs. They arranged for you to get hired.”
Alina’s face drained.
“No.”
“They’ve been using you without you knowing.”
The video crackled.
Then Daniel whispered:
“And if Vincent Marchetti is watching this, there’s something you need to know about the person closest to you.”
A shadow crossed behind Daniel.
He turned.
The recording ended.
Marco tried restoring the final seconds.
A corrupted frame appeared.
A man’s face was reflected in a window.
Vincent stared.
He knew that face.
Before he could speak, someone knocked three times on apartment 417’s door.
Nobody outside was supposed to know they were there.
Then a familiar voice said:
“Vincent, open the door. It’s me.”
May you like
Vincent slowly reached for his weapon.
Because the voice belonged to Adrian Cole.
