Chapter 2 - The Morgue Report and the Empty Apartment
The study smelled of leather bindings, pipe tobacco that no one smoked anymore, and the cold ozone of an air purification system.
Adrian pushed the heavy oak doors shut with an audible click of the brass deadbolt.
The silence that settled over the room was absolute, suffocating the muffled sounds of the gala outside.
Evelyn Russo sat down on the velvet wingback chair near the cold marble fireplace, the silver cufflink clutched so tightly in her fingers that the metal was cutting into her skin.
Mia stood in the center of the Persian rug, her black server shoes looking impossibly small against the dark crimson wool.
She felt like a trespasser standing inside a museum dedicated to the man who had lied to her every day of their relationship.
“Sit down before you collapse on my floor,” Adrian commanded quietly.
He did not wait for her compliance.
He pulled a high-backed leather chair toward her and pressed his palm against her shoulder until her shaking knees gave way.
Mia sat down, her fingers digging into the worn fabric of her black catering skirt.
“He told me his father was a carpenter from Ohio,” Mia whispered, her voice sounding thin and hollow in the vast room.
Evelyn let out a bitter, sorrowful breath that ended in a dry cough.
“His father was Alexander Russo, the former CEO of Russo Transcontinental until his plane went down in the Atlantic eight years ago.”
Mia looked up at the oil paintings lining the wall.
High above the mantle hung a portrait of three men.
Alexander Russo sat in the center with the same severe brow as Adrian.
Beside him stood Adrian, younger, his face already hardened by the brutal politics of their empire.
And on the left, smiling with that familiar, warm, slightly mischievous slant of his lips, was Luke.
Mia’s throat tightened so violently she thought she might choke.
It was him.
The messy hair he could never keep flat, the small scar through his left eyebrow from a childhood fall, the blue eyes that had looked at her like she was the only real thing in a world of ghosts.
“He was an architect,” Mia said, her voice cracking as she pointed a trembling finger at the canvas.
“He spent three hours explaining the load-bearing beams of the city bridge to me on our third date.”
Adrian walked behind the massive mahogany desk, his movements fluid and unnervingly quiet for a man of his size.
“Luke held a master’s degree in structural engineering, but he had not worked on a public bridge in five years.”
Adrian unlocked a steel drawer beneath the desk and withdrew a thick, black leather folder.
He tossed it onto the desk.
It landed with a heavy, ominous thud.
“Luke was the chief auditor for the family trust.”
Adrian rested his knuckles on the polished wood, leaning forward until his shadow covered the folder.
“He was responsible for tracking every penny that flowed through our shipping routes from Rotterdam to New York.”
Mia felt cold sweat gathering between her shoulder blades.
“Then why was he living in a dilapidated studio above a dry cleaner?”
Adrian flipped the folder open, revealing glossy, black-and-white photographs of a twisted metal carcass resting at the bottom of a ravine.
Mia looked away, but not before she saw the scorched frame of a vehicle she recognized.
Luke’s beat-up silver sedan.
The one with the heater that rattled like an old tin can and the passenger window that stuck halfway down.
“He lived there because he knew his apartment in the financial district was bugged,” Adrian said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
Evelyn lifted her head, her aged eyes flashing with a sudden, predatory sharpness.
“Who bugged it, Adrian?”
Adrian did not look at his grandmother.
His eyes remained locked on Mia’s pale face.
“We don't know yet.”
“That is a lie,” Mia interrupted, her voice rising with sudden, desperate anger.
Both Russos looked at her.
Mia did not care about the power this family held over the city; she cared about the three months she had spent mourning a ghost while cursing his memory.
“You said he died eleven days after I last saw him.”
Mia stood up, her small frame rigid with fury.
“I called his phone forty-seven times over the course of three weeks.”
“Every single call went through to his voicemail until the number was disconnected on the twentieth of August.”
Mia took a step toward the desk, slamming her small hand onto the mahogany surface.
“If he died in July, who was answering his phone?”
Adrian did not flinch at her outburst.
He reached into the folder, pulled out a stack of telecommunications records, and slid them toward her.
“Nobody answered them, Mia.”
Adrian’s finger tapped a series of highlighted lines running down the page.
“Every time your number connected to his tower, the call was routed through a server in Jersey City and manually terminated after four seconds.”
Mia stared at the numbers dancing before her eyes.
“Someone was intercepting them?”
“Someone was monitoring his burner phone to see who he would reach out to before he died,” Adrian said coldly.
“When you kept calling, they realized he had a secondary life they hadn't uncovered during their initial sweep.”
Mia pressed her hands against her mouth, a wave of pure terror washing over her anger.
“They knew about me?”
“They knew a phone number registered to a prepaid account in Queens was frantically trying to reach him,” Adrian clarified.
“They didn't know your name because Luke bought that phone for you under an LLC that belonged to a defunct bakery in Brooklyn.”
Mia remembered that day.
Luke had handed her the new phone with a sheepish grin, telling her that her cracked screen was giving him second-hand anxiety.
He had set up the account himself, laughing when she teased him about being overly protective.
He hadn't been teasing.
He had been building a fortress around her without letting her see the bricks.
Evelyn rose from her chair, using her silver-tipped walking stick to support her weight as she crossed the Persian rug.
She stood directly in front of Mia, her gaze searching Mia’s face with a hunger that bordered on painful.
“Did he ever tell you why he loved you, girl?”
Mia blinked back the tears that threatened to spill over her cheeks.
“He told me I was the only person in this city who didn't want anything from him.”
A soft, broken sound escaped Evelyn’s throat.
“Of course he did.”
Evelyn turned to Adrian, her expression hardening back into the iron resolve of a matriarch who had survived three decades of corporate warfare.
“The girl cannot go back to her apartment tonight.”
Mia shook her head instantly.
“No, I have a life, I have a cat, I have a job at the banquet company—”
“You have a target painted between your shoulder blades,” Adrian cut in ruthlessly.
He closed the black folder with a snap that echoed like a small explosion.
“You wore his cufflink to a dinner where seventy members of our extended family and twenty corporate board members are currently drinking champagne.”
Adrian stepped around the desk until he was standing less than a foot from her.
“Do you know what my cousin Julian said when he saw Luke’s estate being frozen after the funeral?”
Mia could smell the sharp cedar and expensive whiskey on Adrian’s breath.
“He said it was a shame Luke never produced an heir, because his forty-percent stake in Russo Transcontinental would now default to the board.”
The room went dead silent.
Mia’s hand moved down to her stomach again, the realization hitting her like a physical blow.
“The trust,” Mia whispered, remembering the final words Luke had spoken to her in the diner.
If anything happens to me, Mia, promise me you won’t look for my family. Promise me you’ll just wait for the lawyer.
She had thought it was dramatic nonsense from an overworked man.
“Luke didn't just transfer money before he died,” Mia said, looking directly into Adrian’s calculating eyes.
“He tried to give everything to the baby.”
Adrian didn't smile, but the darkness in his expression deepened into something lethal.
“Luke signed an amendment to his private trust seventy-two hours before his brakes failed on that mountain road.”
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Adrian leaned down until his eyes were level with hers.
“And whoever cut those brake lines is currently downstairs wondering why a pregnant server is wearing Alexander Russo’s heirloom cufflink around her neck.”
