Chapter 10 - The Man Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
His name was Nikolai Volkov.
Mikhail’s older brother.
Damian had been told Nikolai died in Eastern Europe before Damian was born.
There was even a grave.
Elena had visited it once.
Cassandra told us the grave was empty.
“Nikolai started Northstar.”
She said.
We were back at the estate.
Federal agents had taken the ledger.
Victor Vale was in custody.
News outlets had started reporting his arrest.
But the most dangerous name in the story was still officially dead.
“Where is he?”
Damian asked.
Cassandra shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
“My father called him N.”
“Nothing else.”
“Did Victor work for him?”
“At first.”
“Then with him.”
“And now?”
Cassandra hesitated.
“My father was afraid of him.”
That told us enough.
Elena looked sick.
“I met Nikolai.”
Damian stared at her.
“You said he died.”
“That is what Mikhail told me.”
“When?”
“Before we married.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
The ledger explained some of it.
Northstar began with contraband.
Then trafficking.
Extortion.
Bribery.
Nikolai built the network.
Mikhail became involved in financial operations when he was young.
Victor Vale handled banking.
Years later, Mikhail tried to leave.
Nikolai refused.
Pier 19 became the breaking point.
Mikhail decided to cooperate with federal authorities.
Gabriel discovered the network independently.
They joined forces.
Both died.
Victor spent years cleaning up.
But Nikolai vanished.
Or pretended to.
Damian walked toward the window.
“My entire family is built on a lie.”
Elena’s voice sharpened.
“No.”
He turned.
“Mother.”
“Your grandfather did terrible things.”
“Your father did terrible things and tried too late to repair them.”
“That is not your entire family.”
She pointed toward herself.
“I am your family.”
Then toward me.
“Sofia is becoming your family whether either of you has noticed or not.”
I nearly choked.
“Elena.”
“What?”
“Too soon?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.”
Marco raised a hand.
“I noticed.”
“Marco.”
“What?”
“Everybody noticed.”
Damian looked genuinely uncomfortable.
For one glorious moment, international criminal conspiracies became less frightening than his mother.
Then Leah entered.
“We have a problem.”
Of course we did.
Someone had leaked evidence from the Northstar investigation.
News outlets were publishing partial names.
Politicians denied involvement.
A retired judge disappeared.
Two former police officials hired attorneys.
A state senator announced he had never met Victor Vale despite photographs proving otherwise.
And social media discovered me.
The waitress.
My face was everywhere.
BALLROOM HERO LINKED TO VOLKOV SCANDAL.
WAITRESS WHO STOPPED SLAP HOLDS KEY TO 17-YEAR MYSTERY.
MAFIA BOSS’S MYSTERY WOMAN.
I hated the last one most.
“I am not your mystery woman.”
I told Damian.
“Agreed.”
“You sound too amused.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“A little.”
Photographers appeared outside the estate.
Reporters waited at the medical facility.
Marco’s school received calls.
My old apartment building became a circus.
Then the worst headline came.
SOFIA REYES FAMILY MAY PROFIT FROM VOLKOV PROTECTION.
The article suggested I had staged the gala confrontation to gain access to Damian.
It was ridiculous.
People believed it anyway.
I spent twenty minutes reading comments.
Then Damian took my phone.
“Stop.”
“Give it back.”
“No.”
“Damian.”
“You are reading opinions written by people who believe typing makes them witnesses.”
“That might be the smartest thing you’ve said.”
“Thank you.”
“Give me my phone.”
“No.”
Elena applauded softly.
I glared at both of them.
The media storm created another problem.
My mother saw it.
She called me.
“Do not become ashamed because strangers are loud.”
I sat down.
“I’m not ashamed.”
“Good.”
“I’m furious.”
“Better.”
She coughed.
Then lowered her voice.
“Your father used to say anger should pay rent if it’s going to live in your head.”
I laughed.
“I don’t remember that.”
“You were seven.”
“Most of his wisdom involved cartoons then.”
The federal case grew.
Victor refused to cooperate.
Cassandra did.
Her testimony implicated executives, security contractors, and two former prosecutors.
But no Nikolai.
No photographs.
No addresses.
Nothing.
Then Anton returned.
He walked through the estate gate at noon with his hands visible.
Damian met him outside.
I watched from the steps.
Anton looked older than he had three days earlier.
Tired.
Unshaven.
He stopped ten feet from Damian.
“I found him.”
Damian didn’t move.
“Nikolai?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Not where.”
Anton looked toward me.
“Who.”
A cold feeling moved down my spine.
“What does that mean?”
Anton reached into his coat slowly.
Security raised weapons.
He pulled out a photograph.
Placed it on the hood of a car.
An older man stood beside Victor at a charity event.
Gray hair.
Thin.
Smiling.
I recognized him.
Everyone in New York would.
Judge Theodore Crane.
Retired federal judge.
Regular television legal commentator.
Chairman of three philanthropic foundations.
He had been in the Hargrove ballroom.
I remembered him clearly.
He was one of the men who looked at the floor while Cassandra raised her hand.
Damian stared at the picture.
“That’s Nikolai?”
Anton nodded.
“He changed his name forty-one years ago.”
“Built a public identity.”
“Went to law school.”
“Federal prosecutor.”
“Judge.”
My mouth went dry.
“He spent his life inside the system.”
“Yes.”
Anton looked at Damian.
“That’s why Northstar survived.”
“Nikolai didn’t buy powerful people.”
“He became one.”
Elena sat down heavily.
“I spoke to him at the gala.”
“Yes.”
Anton’s face hardened.
“And I think Cassandra’s attack was meant to keep everyone looking at her while Crane’s people searched your suite.”
“For the music box.”
“Yes.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed.
“Where is he now?”
Anton looked toward the estate gates.
“Gone.”
“When the arrest story broke, his security detail disappeared.”
“His Manhattan apartment is empty.”
“Private plane untouched.”
“No border records.”
“He planned for this.”
I remembered the ballroom.
The elegant old man looking away.
A man everyone trusted because he had spent decades wearing respectability like armor.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
Damian looked at it.
“Speaker.”
I answered.
A calm male voice filled the room.
“Sofia Reyes.”
I knew the voice.
Television.
Courtroom interviews.
Judge Theodore Crane.
Nikolai Volkov.
“You have caused a remarkable amount of trouble.”
My skin crawled.
“You started it.”
A soft laugh.
“No.”
“Your father did.”
Damian stepped closer.
“Nikolai.”
Silence.
Then the man’s voice changed.
“Damian.”
Not Judge Crane anymore.
Family.
“Your father raised you to sound weak.”
Damian did not react.
“You killed him.”
“No.”
“You ordered it.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Elena made a broken sound.
Damian’s face became stone.
“And Gabriel?”
Nikolai answered.
“Victor handled Gabriel.”
My vision blurred.
There it was.
Not courtroom proof.
Not yet.
But truth.
I clenched the phone.
“Why call?”
“Because Rosa has something that belongs to me.”
My heart stopped.
“My mother has nothing.”
“She does.”
“What?”
“The final page.”
The missing ledger page.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Ask her about the blue recipe book.”
Then he hung up.
I called my mother.
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
The medical facility answered on the third call.
There had been an emergency.
A fire alarm.
A staff evacuation.
Four minutes of confusion.
When nurses returned to Room 212, my mother was gone.
Her wheelchair remained beside the bed.
May you like
Her oxygen tube lay on the floor.
And on her pillow sat one blue recipe book.
