Chapter 4 - The Man in the PhotographBy midnight, the Costello penthouse no longer looked like a home.
It looked like a command center.
Security monitors covered the dining-room wall. Leo had doubled guards at every entrance. Two armored vehicles waited below. Every employee had been sent home except Adrian’s inner security team.
Harper stood barefoot in the middle of the living room wearing Adrian’s black cashmere sweater over leggings, staring at a photograph taken sixteen years earlier.
Vincent Costello’s funeral.
Rain.
Black umbrellas.
A closed mahogany coffin.
Adrian stood beside it at twenty-two years old, expressionless, already wearing the face of a man who had learned grief was dangerous if other people could see it.
“You never saw the body?”
Harper asked.
Adrian stood near the fireplace.
“No.”
“Why?”
“The official story was that his car exploded.”
“Official?”
He gave her a look.
“My father did not live an official life.”
Leo entered carrying a thick file.
“We pulled everything.”
He dropped it onto the table.
“Death certificate. Dental identification. NYPD photographs. Coroner report.”
Harper opened the folder.
“Who identified him?”
Leo hesitated.
“That’s the problem.”
Adrian looked up.
“Who?”
“Matteo.”
The room went silent.
Harper slowly closed the file.
Of course.
Matteo.
The dead traitor seemed to keep reaching into their lives from the grave.
“Matteo handled the coroner,” Leo continued. “He also arranged the funeral.”
Adrian walked toward the windows.
“Where is the coroner now?”
“Dead. Heart attack seven years ago.”
“Detective?”
“Retired to Arizona.”
“Find him.”
“Already doing it.”
Harper studied Adrian.
He was too calm.
That meant he was furious.
She had learned there were several versions of his anger. Loud Adrian was dangerous. Silent Adrian was catastrophic.
“Assume the man in the footage is Vincent,” she said.
Adrian turned sharply.
“We don’t know that.”
“No, but assume it.”
His jaw tightened.
“Why?”
“Because if we keep telling ourselves something is impossible, whoever is doing this stays ahead of us.”
Leo nodded once.
Harper continued.
“If Vincent survived, he had sixteen years to disappear. Why come back now?”
Adrian’s gaze dropped toward her stomach.
She noticed.
Again.
“You think this is about the baby?”
“I think the caller knew.”
“So?”
“So whoever knows about our child has access to information very few people have.”
Harper thought through the list.
Her mother.
Leo.
Doctor Alvarez.
Adrian.
Herself.
Two nurses at the private clinic.
The laboratory that had processed her blood work.
The security team that transported her.
“What if nobody told them?” she said.
Leo frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“What if they watched me?”
Adrian’s face changed.
Harper knew she had touched the right nerve.
Pregnancy had altered small things.
Her schedule.
Her food.
Her refusal of champagne at public events.
The way Adrian’s hand had begun drifting toward her stomach without realizing it.
Maybe someone observant had not needed a leak.
Adrian picked up his phone.
“Cancel every public appearance for the next three months.”
“No.”
He ignored her.
“Move Harper’s mother to the safe property in Westchester.”
“No.”
“Triple the medical detail.”
“Adrian.”
He kept speaking.
“Put two men inside the obstetric clinic—”
Harper snatched the phone out of his hand.
Leo suddenly found the ceiling very interesting.
Adrian stared at her.
“Give me the phone.”
“No.”
“Harper.”
“You don’t get to turn my pregnancy into a prison sentence.”
“Someone threatened you.”
“Someone threatened us.”
“The distinction means something to me.”
“And your reaction means something to whoever is doing this.”
That stopped him.
Harper stepped closer.
“They want you afraid.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Bullshit.”
Leo quietly backed toward the door.
“Stay,” Adrian snapped.
Leo stopped.
Harper placed the phone on the table.
“You are terrified.”
Adrian’s eyes hardened.
“Choose your next words carefully.”
“I already did.”
She pointed toward the security screens.
“This person knew exactly what would destabilize you. Not money. Not territory. Me. The baby. Your father. Whoever this is understands you.”
Adrian said nothing.
“And if your response is to lock me away and start shooting everyone you distrust, they win.”
A long silence followed.
Then Adrian looked at Leo.
“Leave.”
This time Leo left.
The doors closed.
Adrian’s shoulders dropped half an inch.
That was the closest he came to collapse.
“When I was twelve,” he said, “Samuel Vale put me in the trunk of a Cadillac.”
Harper froze.
“He got further than my father admitted publicly. They held me for nine hours.”
She moved toward him.
He did not look at her.
“I was tied by my wrists. Blindfolded. Samuel kept coming downstairs to talk to me. He told me my father would eventually choose the organization over me.”
Harper swallowed.
“How did you get out?”
“My father came.”
His voice was flat.
“He killed six men.”
Harper could imagine it too easily.
“Samuel escaped?”
“For two days.”
“And then?”
“My father found him.”
Adrian rubbed his thumb over an old scar on his palm.
“He made me watch.”
Harper’s chest tightened.
“Adrian…”
“He said I needed to understand what happened to people who threatened family.”
Now she understood the contradiction at the center of him.
Why protection and violence were tied together in his mind.
Why love made him more dangerous instead of softer.
Vincent Costello had taught his son that protecting family meant destroying threats before they had a chance to become real.
Harper took Adrian’s hand.
“Your father survived too, didn’t he?”
Adrian’s gaze met hers.
“I don’t know.”
“But if he did…”
“He might believe he’s protecting us.”
“By terrorizing us?”
“You didn’t know Vincent.”
“Neither did you, apparently.”
For once, Adrian almost laughed.
Then the alarm sounded.
One sharp tone.
The lights dimmed.
Leo burst through the doors.
“Security breach.”
Adrian immediately pulled Harper behind him.
“What floor?”
“Not the building.”
Leo turned the television on.
A live security feed from Mount Sinai appeared.
Harper’s mother’s hospital room.
Empty.
Harper stopped breathing.
“No.”
She ran toward the screen.
The bed was neatly made.
Her mother’s flowers were still beside it.
But Claire Bennett was gone.
Harper spun toward Leo.
“Where is she?”
“We don’t know.”
“You had guards!”
“Both are unconscious.”
Adrian grabbed his coat.
Harper caught his arm.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“My mother is missing.”
“Exactly why you’re staying here.”
She stepped directly into his path.
“If you leave me behind, I will take another car and follow you.”
Adrian stared at her.
She stared back.
He knew she meant it.
“Armored vest,” he said.
“Fine.”
“You stay beside Leo.”
“Fine.”
“You do exactly what I say.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“Harper.”
“Adrian.”
Leo muttered something obscene under his breath.
Ten minutes later they were racing uptown.
The streets were slick with rain.
Harper sat between Adrian and Leo in the rear of the armored Escalade. Her hand remained clenched around her phone.
No ransom call.
No message.
Nothing.
That was worse.
At Mount Sinai, Adrian’s men sealed the corridor before they entered.
The two guards were awake but disoriented.
“No gunfire,” one said.
“Someone came in dressed like a doctor. Your mother knew him.”
Harper’s stomach twisted.
“Knew him?”
“She smiled.”
Harper pushed into the room.
Her mother’s purse was still there.
Coat gone.
Shoes gone.
No signs of struggle.
Adrian moved toward the bedside table.
There was a chess piece sitting beside the water glass.
A white bishop.
Harper’s eyes filled with rage.
She picked it up.
A folded piece of paper rested underneath.
Her name was written on it.
Harper opened it.
There were only six words.
Ask Adrian about Saint Agnes.
She looked at her husband.
Adrian’s expression told her everything.
He knew exactly what it meant.
“What is Saint Agnes?”
“No.”
Harper stared at him.
“Wrong answer.”
“This isn’t the place.”
“My mother has been taken.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me.”
Adrian’s jaw worked.
“Saint Agnes was a church in Brooklyn.”
“Was?”
“It burned down.”
“When?”
“Sixteen years ago.”
The same year Vincent died.
Harper’s pulse quickened.
“What happened there?”
Adrian did not answer.
Leo looked away.
That meant he knew too.
Harper’s voice lowered.
“What happened at Saint Agnes?”
Finally Adrian spoke.
“My father kept records there.”
“What kind of records?”
“Everything.”
Names.
Bribes.
Judges.
Police officers.
Politicians.
Executions.
Payments.
Secrets.
A map of the entire empire.
“After his death,” Adrian said, “Matteo and I went to retrieve them.”
“And?”
“The church was already burning.”
Harper looked at the note again.
Ask Adrian about Saint Agnes.
“Who knew the records were there?”
“Five people.”
“Names.”
“My father. Matteo. Samuel Vale. Me…”
He stopped.
“And?”
Adrian’s face hardened.
“My mother.”
Harper stared.
Adrian rarely spoke of his mother.
Elena Costello had supposedly died when he was fifteen.
Cancer.
A tragedy that had helped form the wall around him.
“Your mother died before Vincent.”
“Yes.”
“Then why would she matter?”
Adrian said nothing.
Harper felt something cold move through her.
“Adrian.”
Leo’s phone buzzed.
He looked down.
“Boss.”
Adrian turned.
Leo held the screen out.
A photograph had arrived from an untraceable number.
Claire Bennett was sitting at a wooden table.
Alive.
Uninjured.
Behind her stood the gray-haired man from the port footage.
Vincent Costello.
He had one hand resting gently on Claire’s shoulder.
In the other, he held a white king.
Below the photograph was a message.
Bring Adrian to Saint Agnes.
Come alone.
Or Harper loses her mother before her child ever meets her.
Harper read the words twice.
Then she looked at Adrian.
“No.”
He was already walking toward the door.
She grabbed his coat.
“No.”
“I’m going.”
“That is obviously what they want.”
“It’s your mother.”
“And you’re my husband.”
His eyes flashed.
“I can get her back.”
“You don’t even know who you’re dealing with.”
“Yes,” Adrian said.
For the first time that night, his voice cracked.
“I think I do.”
Harper stopped.
Adrian looked at the photograph again.
“That man is my father.”
“How can you be sure?”
Adrian enlarged the image.
Vincent’s right hand was visible on Claire’s shoulder.
His smallest finger was bent permanently inward.
An old injury.
Something impossible to fake without knowing the detail.
Adrian whispered, “I broke that finger when I was seven.”
Harper looked at him.
“He was teaching me to box. I panicked and grabbed his hand.”
Vincent Costello had been dead sixteen years.
May you like
Yet somewhere in Brooklyn, a dead man was waiting inside the ruins of a burned church.
And he had Harper’s mother.
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