Chapter 6 - The Financial Manager and the Burner Phone
Marco stood in the glaring beams of the headlights, the suppressed pistol leveled squarely at Adrian’s chest. The financial manager’s usually immaculate suit was damp with rain, and his expression was completely devoid of the deferential loyalty he displayed in the office.
"Marco?" Adrian said, rising slowly to place himself between the gun and us. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Securing my retirement, Mr. Valenti," Marco said smoothly, though his eyes darted nervously toward the restrained Serena in the SUV. "Serena was a useful idiot for laundering the money, but she got sloppy. I couldn't let her kill the old woman. It draws too much police attention."
"You're in on this with her?" I asked, my heart hammering.
"I manage the books, Grace," Marco sneered. "Who do you think set up the shell companies? Who do you think forged your signature on the contractor accounts? Serena had the motive, but I had the access. When Carmine Valenti died, Serena came to me for help covering up the financials. For a thirty percent cut, I made sure the foundation audits always came back clean."
He gestured with the gun toward the edge of the cliff. "Now, kick your phones over the edge. All of them."
Adrian pulled his phone from his pocket and tossed it into the darkness. I did the same.
"You too, Ruth," Marco demanded.
Ruth reached into her pocket with trembling hands and pulled out the cheap burner phone she had found in the trunk. She tossed it over the cliff.
Marco smiled. "Good. Now, Adrian, you are going to get into the driver's seat of the Mercedes. Grace and Ruth will get in the back. You're going to drive yourselves off this overlook. A tragic murder-suicide after a dispute over stolen funds."
"You'll never get away with this," Adrian said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Carlo knows. My security team knows."
"Carlo is a coward who will keep his mouth shut to protect his own complicity," Marco countered. "And your security team works for whoever signs their paychecks. Get in the car."
He raised the gun, aiming it directly at my head to force Adrian's compliance.
Adrian’s jaw locked. He took a step toward the Mercedes.
But as Marco stepped closer to herd us into the vehicle, a sharp, metallic clicking sound suddenly echoed from the trunk of the Mercedes—the trunk Serena had left open.
Marco instinctively glanced toward the noise.
In that split second, Ruth reached into her soaked cardigan, pulled out her actual cell phone—she had thrown the burner over the cliff, not her own—and hit a single button on the screen.
A blinding, high-intensity camera flash erupted in the pitch-black night, hitting Marco squarely in the eyes.
Marco cried out, stumbling backward and firing a blind shot into the air.
Adrian didn't waste the opening. He closed the distance in a heartbeat, grabbing Marco’s wrist and twisting it violently backward. The bone snapped with a sickening crunch. Marco screamed, dropping the weapon.
Adrian delivered a brutal strike to Marco’s jaw, dropping the financial manager unconscious onto the wet gravel.
I rushed forward and kicked the gun away.
Adrian stood over Marco, chest heaving, the rain washing the blood from his knuckles. He looked at Ruth, who was still holding her phone, her hands shaking but her chin held high.
"You kept your phone," Adrian said, amazed.
"I've spent a year letting that woman humiliate me on camera," Ruth said fiercely. "I learned how to use the flash."
Adrian let out a breathless laugh, a sound of pure adrenaline and relief. He picked up Marco’s dropped gun and checked the magazine. "Grace, tie him up. Use the rest of the zip-ties from the trunk."
While I bound Marco’s wrists and ankles, Adrian went to the SUV and dragged a screaming, thrashing Serena out of the driver's seat. He forced her down onto the gravel next to Marco.
"The police are going to find you both here," Adrian told her coldly. "And by the time you make bail, I will have dismantled every piece of your life."
"You're too late, Adrian!" Serena shrieked, spitting rain and blood. "The director at Silver Pines has his orders! If he doesn't hear from me by midnight, he administers a lethal overdose to Leo’s father. It will look like a tragic suicide by a guilty psychiatric patient! You can't save him!"
Adrian checked his watch. It was 10:45 PM. Silver Pines was a two-hour drive away.
"Watch me," Adrian said.
He turned to me and Ruth. "We need the vintage watch from your apartment, Ruth. It's the only way to prove to the authorities that the director is a paid hitman before they cover up the murder."
"My apartment is in the city, thirty minutes from here," Ruth said, climbing into the back of the SUV. "I'll guide you."
I jumped into the passenger seat as Adrian threw the SUV into reverse, leaving Serena and Marco bound in the mud. We tore back onto the highway, the tires screaming against the wet asphalt.
"Grace," Adrian said, keeping his eyes on the road. "Call Carlo on the encrypted radio channel. Tell him to get a medical evac helicopter ready at the private airfield. If my brother is drugged, we can't wait for a local ambulance."
I grabbed the radio from the console and relayed the message. Carlo’s voice came back, thick with emotion. "It's done. I'll meet you at the facility. Bring him home, Adrian."
We reached Ruth's apartment building at 11:15 PM. It was a rundown brick complex in the industrial district. Adrian parked on the sidewalk, and the three of us ran up the three flights of stairs to her unit.
Ruth fumbled with her keys, her hands shaking, and unlocked the door.
We rushed inside. The apartment was small but immaculately clean. Ruth ran straight to the small brick fireplace. Sitting on the wooden mantel, next to a framed picture of young Leo, was the gold pocket watch.
She grabbed it, pressing the crown. The back casing popped open.
She pulled out a tightly folded piece of heavy stationary. She handed it to Adrian.
Adrian unfolded it. It was a handwritten letter from Serena to Dr. Vance, the director of Silver Pines. It explicitly detailed the monthly payments in exchange for keeping the "Valenti bastard" sedated and hidden, and authorized lethal measures if the arrangement was ever compromised.
It was the smoking gun.
"We have it," Adrian said, his eyes burning with fierce determination. "Let's go."
But as we turned to leave, the apartment door swung shut with a heavy thud.
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Standing in the entryway, blocking our exit, were three men in dark tactical gear. They weren't police. They weren't Adrian's security.
They were Serena's private fixers. And they were all holding weapons.
