Chapter 2 - THE ENEMY IN THE REARVIEW
The rain started hitting the reinforced windshield of the black Escalade just as we hit the Triborough Bridge. The rhythm was erratic, violent, matching the erratic, violent hum of adrenaline still singing in my veins. In the passenger seat, I kept my hands folded over my leather bag, clutching my laptop and case files as if they were shields against the armored silence of the vehicle.
Matteo drove with one hand, his fingers resting casually on the steering wheel while his eyes flicked constantly to the rear-view mirror. Behind us, two black town cars maintained a precise, suffocating distance—neither closing in nor falling back. Marchetti’s private escort. A golden leash, wrapped twice around my throat.
“You don’t have to grip it so hard, Counselor,” Matteo muttered, his voice a low gravel rasp that seemed to vibrate through the cabin. “The bag’s not going to jump out the window.”
“I prefer to hold my own things,” I replied, my gaze fixed on the blur of gray concrete flashing past.
“Most people in your shoes would be crying. Or calling their bosses to quit.” Matteo glanced at me briefly, the dim dashboard light casting harsh shadows across his scarred jaw. “You’re different. You didn't even flinch when I put the iron to your back.”
“I’ve had worse days, Mr....” I paused, realizing I didn't actually know his last name.
“Vance. Just Vance.”
“Mr. Vance. Let’s just say that the U.S. Attorney’s office prepares you for rude receptions.”
“The Feds are amateurs playing dress-up,” Vance snorted softly. “The boss is a different breed. You shouldn't have dug into those accounts, Eleanor. Not unless you wanted to see how the other half of New York really operates.”
My pulse spiked again, a hot, unwelcome rush. “I was assigned a job. The numbers don't lie, Mr. Vance. Shell companies in the Caymans, real estate acquisitions funded by anonymous wire transfers from Zurich—it all points to a massive money laundering operation hiding right under the nose of the SEC.”
Vance didn't answer immediately. He flicked the turn signal, guiding the massive SUV off the highway and onto the slick, tree-lined streets of Queens. The neighborhood was quiet, unpretentious, a stark contrast to the gleaming glass towers of Manhattan. Rows of brick row houses, peeling paint, and flickering streetlamps painted a picture of working-class exhaustion.
“The world isn't black and white, Counselor,” Vance said quietly as he pulled up directly in front of St. Jude’s Senior Care Facility. “Sometimes the men who look like monsters are the only ones keeping the roof over people’s heads. Watch your step.”
He killed the engine and pushed open his door before I could formulate a retort. The damp night air rushed in, carrying the scent of wet asphalt and impending storm.
St. Jude’s lobby smelled of industrial floor wax and stale cabbage. The receptionist, a tired woman with salt-and-pepper hair pinned up in a messy bun, took one look at my drenched trench coat and then looked past me—straight at Vance, who had followed me inside, his bulk filling the narrow doorway like a walking monolith.
“Miss Castellano,” the receptionist breathed, her eyes darting nervously to Vance’s broad shoulders and the subtle, dangerous bulge beneath his jacket. “Thank God. She’s in the quiet room. Room 402. But… there was a visitor.”
I didn't wait for her to elaborate. I bolted down the linoleum-floored corridor, my heels clicking a sharp, frantic tattoo. Vance stayed a step behind, an uninvited shadow that radiated absolute, unapologetic authority.
When I shoved open the door to Room 402, the sight waiting inside made my breath seize in my chest.
My mother was huddled in her armchair, her frail fingers clawing desperately at a woolen blanket, her eyes wide with a terror I knew too well. Standing over her was a man I hadn’t seen in five years. My uncle Victor—my father’s younger brother, a gambler, a drunk, and a parasite who had bled our family dry before disappearing into the Atlantic City underworld.
“—you’re going to sign the deed over to me, Maria,” Victor was snarling, leaning in close enough that my mother shrank back against the floral cushions. “The old man’s dead, the house is mine by rights, and—!”
“Get away from her.”
The words ripped out of my throat, sharp as broken glass. Victor spun around, his bloated face twisting into an ugly sneer when he saw me.
“Well, look who it is. Little Ellie. All grown up and playing corporate lawyer.” Victor took a step toward me, his breath reeking of cheap whiskey and sour desperation. “You’re just in time. Tell your mother to sign the papers. She’s out of her mind anyway, it won't hold up in court, but if you sign as witness—”
I didn't get to finish the thought.
A heavy, gloved hand landed on Victor’s shoulder. The movement was so fast, so utterly devoid of warning, that Victor gasped as he was spun around like a ragdoll.
Vance didn't draw a weapon. He didn't have to. He simply gripped the front of Victor’s polyester jacket, lifting the older man a full three inches off the linoleum floor with one hand.
“Who the hell are you?” Victor choked out, his face turning a mottled shade of purple as Vance’s grip tightened around his collar.
“I’m the guy who’s going to explain to you why you shouldn't come back to Queens,” Vance whispered, his voice smooth, deadly, and utterly devoid of emotion. “Let alone harass a sick woman.”
“Let him go, Vance,” I said, my voice shaking as I rushed to my mother’s side, dropping to my knees to wrap my arms around her trembling shoulders. “Mom, it’s okay. I’m here. Look at me, it’s Eleanor.”
My mother blinked, her cloudy eyes slowly focusing on my face. Her hands gripped my wrists with surprising strength. “Ellie… he said your father’s debts weren't paid. He said they were coming for the house…”
“They aren't coming for anything,” I promised, pressing a kiss to her cold knuckles.
Behind me, there was a muffled thud, a sharp intake of breath, and then the heavy scrape of shoes retreating down the hall at a dead sprint.
Vance walked back into my line of sight, dusting off his cuffs as if he’d just swatted away a particularly annoying fly. “He won't be back. And if he tries, my people will handle it.”
I looked up at him, the adrenaline finally giving way to a sickening, heavy dread. I was standing in a run-down nursing home in Queens, beholden to a killer who worked for the most dangerous man on the East Coast, holding my mother while my entire life unraveled thread by thread.
“Why are you doing this?” I whispered. “What does Alessandro Marchetti actually want from me?”
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Vance looked down at me, his expression unreadable. “He doesn't want anything from you, Counselor. Not yet. But he’s a man who likes to collect things. And right now… you’ve caught his eye.”
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