Chapter 3 - The Ghost’s Ledger
I pressed my back against the firm leather seat, pulling my coat tight around my chest. “I don't have your money. I don't have your drive. I didn't even know Mark had two million dollars!”
Dante took a slow, measured sip of his drink, his pale eyes searching my face for any trace of deceit.
“Mark Tanner was not an investment consultant, Eliza,” Dante said calmly. “He was an accountant who specialized in moving clean money through dirty channels. Six months ago, I hired him to manage an offshore portfolio for my family’s legitimate shipping enterprise.”
“And he stole from you,” I stated, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to sound composed.
“The money is irrelevant,” Dante replied, waving his hand slightly as if two million dollars were pocket change left on a nightstand. “The drive he stole from my private vault contains the complete financial ledgers of the Moretti organization—our rivals in New Jersey. Mark was playing both sides. He intended to sell my data to the Morettis, take their money, and disappear to South America.”
“Then find him!” I cried out, wiping a stray tear from my cheek. “Why are you grabbing me off my roof? I haven't seen him in three weeks!”
Dante leaned forward, setting his glass into a recessed holder beside his seat. He reached into his inner breast pocket, pulled out his phone, and turned the screen toward me.
Displayed on the glowing screen was a high-resolution photograph taken from a security camera. It showed Mark standing inside a dimly lit parking garage, exchanging a thick leather envelope with a man in a trench coat. The timestamp on the bottom read: Yesterday, 11:42 PM.
My breath caught in my throat. “He’s... he’s alive?”
“Very much so,” Dante said softly. “He was seen in Brooklyn last night. He has been hiding in the city, waiting for his forged passport to clear. But more importantly, Eliza, the Morettis now know that Mark had a girlfriend in Queens.”
Dante reached out, his long fingers gently picking up my phone from my lap. He glanced down at the open text thread, where the image of my ultrasound was still displayed.
“If I found you through Mark’s old burner phone logs,” Dante said, his blue eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my heart hammer against my ribs, “the Morettis will find you by morning. And unlike me, Viktor Moretti does not leave pregnant women alive to ask questions.”
The helicopter tilted again, beginning its descent toward a private helipad situated atop a massive stone estate nestled deep within the dark, wooded hills of Long Island.
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“You’re keeping me hostage,” I realized, terror cold and heavy in my gut.
“I am keeping you alive,” Dante corrected smoothly as the landing skids touched the concrete with a soft thud. “Until Mark Tanner brings me my drive, you do not leave my sight.”
