Chapter 4 - The Man Behind the Blackout|
Mateo caught Genevieve's wrist just as the first crash echoed through the penthouse.
“Private stairwell,” he ordered.
She pulled free.
“Penelope comes with us.”
“Obviously.”
The emergency lights activated, bathing the hallway in a dim red glow.
Gabriel's voice sounded again through Mateo's phone.
“Three armed men entered through the service level, and building security isn't answering.”
Mateo turned toward Penelope.
“Take the east stairwell and call Harris.”
Penelope stared at him.
“You want me to call the police?”
“Yes.”
“This really is the end of the world.”
“Penelope.”
“I'm moving.”
Genevieve followed her toward the hallway while Mateo remained beside the living room entrance.
She stopped.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure they don't follow.”
“You're not bulletproof.”
“I've noticed.”
“Then stop acting like it.”
For an instant, their eyes met.
Then she heard footsteps approaching from the far corridor.
Mateo pushed a heavy cabinet against the doorway.
“Go.”
Genevieve hated leaving him.
She hated even more that she hated it.
Penelope entered a security code beside an unobtrusive panel.
A narrow door opened onto a service staircase.
The two women descended three flights before another sound reached them.
A gunshot.
Genevieve stopped so abruptly that Penelope nearly collided with her.
“Keep moving,” Penelope whispered.
“That came from upstairs.”
“I know.”
“Mateo is still there.”
“And he's surrounded by people who know how to protect him.”
Genevieve listened.
Another shot rang out.
Then silence.
She had spent years training herself to make decisions under pressure.
She knew the difference between loyalty and recklessness.
But the memory of Mateo standing alone beside the doorway made her chest tighten.
Penelope seemed to read her expression.
“If you go back, you'll become another person he has to protect.”
Genevieve forced herself to continue.
They emerged inside a private storage garage.
Gabriel waited beside a dark SUV.
His sleeve was torn, and a shallow cut marked his forehead.
“Get in.”
Genevieve looked around.
“Where is Mateo?”
Gabriel didn't answer immediately.
Her stomach dropped.
“Gabriel.”
“He's coming.”
A door slammed at the far end of the garage.
Mateo appeared with another security guard.
Blood stained the cuff of his white shirt.
Genevieve moved toward him before she could stop herself.
“Are you hurt?”
“Not seriously.”
She grabbed his wrist.
“You're bleeding.”
“Someone else's blood.”
“That isn't reassuring.”
“Would you prefer I lie?”
She glared at him.
Mateo glanced toward Gabriel.
“Drive.”
The SUV sped toward the garage exit as the security gate opened.
Behind them, the entrance closed again.
Genevieve stared at Mateo's stained sleeve.
“What happened upstairs?”
“Two men tried to enter through the hallway, and one was injured when he refused to put down his weapon.”
“And the third?”
“Escaped through the service elevator.”
“Did you kill anyone?”
“No.”
She examined his expression.
He didn't look offended by the question.
That disturbed her more than an angry response would have.
Penelope leaned forward.
“Who authorized access to the service level?”
Gabriel checked his phone.
“The credentials belonged to Marco Bellini.”
Mateo's face hardened.
Genevieve remembered the name from her investigation.
Marco Bellini was Viscanti Shipping's head of corporate security.
He had worked for the Viscanti family for almost eighteen years.
“Your own security chief?” she asked.
Mateo didn't answer.
Penelope closed her eyes.
“Marco has access to every executive building and most of the waterfront facilities.”
“He also knew where I was taking her,” Mateo replied.
Genevieve felt another piece of the conspiracy fall into place.
“Arthur isn't simply watching you.”
“No.”
“He's already inside your organization.”
Mateo looked out the window.
“For longer than I realized.”
They reached Penelope's law office shortly before four in the morning.
The building occupied the upper floors of an older commercial property in Midtown.
There were no marble statues or extravagant chandeliers.
Only reinforced doors, conference rooms, and the reassuring smell of printer paper and stale coffee.
Penelope activated the security system.
“Welcome to the least romantic honeymoon suite in New York.”
Genevieve dropped into a chair.
“We are not on a honeymoon.”
Mateo sat across from her.
“Technically, we haven't had the wedding.”
“Technically, we haven't had a first date.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“So you're considering one?”
She threw a folded napkin at him.
For one brief second, everyone smiled.
Then Genevieve's borrowed phone began ringing.
The caller identification displayed a number she knew by heart.
Thomas Kesler.
Her smile vanished.
Mateo noticed immediately.
“Don't answer.”
Genevieve considered the warning.
Then she activated the recording function on a separate device and placed the phone on speaker.
“Kesler.”
“Genevieve, thank God.”
His voice sounded exactly as it always had.
Calm.
Professional.
Concerned.
She suddenly despised how familiar it was.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Somewhere safe.”
“Are you with Mateo Viscanti?”
She looked at Mateo.
“Yes.”
Kesler exhaled sharply.
“You need to get away from him immediately.”
“Why?”
“Because he knows who you are.”
“So do you.”
A pause followed.
“Genevieve, listen carefully.”
“I'm listening.”
“The Viscanti family murdered your father.”
The words struck her like a physical blow.
Across the table, Mateo went completely still.
Kesler continued.
“I have documents proving that Salvatore Viscanti ordered the fire at Pier Forty-Seven in 2014.”
Genevieve gripped the phone.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I was trying to protect you.”
“Then send me the documents.”
“I can't transmit classified material over an unsecured connection.”
“Funny.”
“What?”
“That's what you told me when I asked why Arthur Pendleton's foundation kept disappearing from our financial intelligence reports.”
Kesler fell silent.
Genevieve pressed forward.
“Did you authorize a private security team to collect me at the gala?”
“Who told you that?”
“Answer the question.”
“Genevieve, you're under tremendous stress.”
“Did you authorize it?”
Another pause.
Then Kesler's voice changed.
The warmth disappeared.
“You were supposed to follow instructions.”
Genevieve felt her blood turn cold.
“What instructions?”
“You were supposed to identify Mara Chen, recover the financial records, and report directly to me.”
“And then?”
Silence.
“And then, Thomas?”
When he finally spoke, his voice was almost gentle.
“You should have stayed away from Mateo Viscanti.”
The call ended.
Genevieve remained motionless.
Across the table, Penelope stopped the recording.
Mateo leaned forward.
“Genevieve.”
She lifted one hand.
“Don't.”
He remained silent.
She looked toward the dark windows.
For eight months, she had trusted a man who was apparently using her investigation to locate a whistleblower and recover evidence for the very criminals she was pursuing.
Every report she had submitted might have helped Arthur stay ahead of federal investigators.
Every witness she had identified might now be in danger.
And the man sitting across from her was connected to the fire that had destroyed her family.
Mateo finally spoke.
“There's something about your father's death that you deserve to know.”
Genevieve looked up slowly.
“My father didn't order the warehouse fire,” Mateo said.
“But he knew who did.”
Her voice trembled.
“Who?”
Mateo removed an old brass key from his wallet.
“My father left me a locked archive when he died.”
He placed the key on the table.
“Inside is an original shipping report from the night Martin Sinclair was killed.”
Genevieve stared at it.
“Why haven't you given it to the police?”
Mateo's expression filled with something she had not seen before.
Shame.
“Because the documents also prove what my family was doing on those docks.”
“And you protected them.”
“Yes.”
The answer was quiet.
Unforgiving.
Genevieve stood.
“You let my father's death stay unsolved to protect your family name?”
Mateo accepted her anger without looking away.
“Yes.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Then maybe Arthur Pendleton isn't the only monster I should be afraid of.”
May you like
Mateo lowered his head.
For the first time since the gala, he had no clever answer.
