Chapter 4 - The Ghost in the Security Logs
By the time Adrian’s black SUV pulled through the wrought-iron gates of the Long Island estate, midnight had settled over the grounds like a wet shroud.
The mansion was entirely dark save for the amber security lights illuminating the gravel paths and the harsh fluorescent glare pouring from the basement security suite.
Adrian didn’t go to his bedroom. He didn’t stop to see Vivian, who was waiting in the second-floor master suite with a glass of scotch and a carefully rehearsed expression of exhausted grief. Instead, he walked straight down the spiral staircase into the basement command center.
Nick Caruso looked up as the heavy steel door swung open. One look at Adrian’s face told Nick that the twenty-hour flight from Chicago had done nothing to burn off the ice in his veins.
“Boss,” Nick said, standing up from his ergonomic chair.
“Talk,” Adrian commanded, pulling off his leather gloves and tossing them onto the central monitoring desk.
“It wasn't a random snatch,” Nick said, pulling up a multi-screen timeline on the main monitor wall. “Look at this footage from the western service gate at 23:14 last night. The plate reader was blinded by an infrared strobe mounted on the front bumper of a late-model black Lincoln Navigator. Registered to a shell company in Newark—Apex Holdings.”
Adrian’s eyes narrowed. “Apex belongs to Salvatore Romano.”
“Bingo,” Nick replied grimly. “And look who accessed the main electrical panel in the basement twenty minutes before the vehicle arrived.”
Nick tapped a keystroke. A grainy thermal camera capture popped up on the center screen. A slender figure in a dark, hooded cashmere sweater stepped out of the service stairwell, deftly flipped the breaker switch for the exterior motion floodlights covering the western perimeter, and slipped back inside before the system could log an automated alert.
The camera angle shifted slightly as the figure turned toward a wall-mounted sensor. For one split second, the hood slipped back, catching the faint reflection of a diamond tennis bracelet on the right wrist.
The exact bracelet Adrian had bought Vivian for their anniversary six months ago.
The room went so quiet that the faint hum of the server racks sounded like roaring surf.
Nick didn’t speak. He let the evidence settle over Adrian like lead weights. In the underworld, betrayal from an outsider was expected; it was just the cost of doing business. But betrayal from within—from the woman sharing your bed while feeding your enemies the keys to your house—was a death sentence.
“Where is she?” Adrian asked. His voice was barely a whisper, yet every muscle in his neck was corded tight like steel cable.
“Upstairs in the master suite,” Nick said cautiously. “Waiting for you. She’s got a story ready about how devastated she is over the dog, and how worried she’s been about your stress levels.”
Adrian turned toward the exit, his coat billowing behind him.
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“Don’t touch her yet,” Adrian said, his eyes burning with a dark, terrifying clarity. “I want to know where they put the dog. If Bruno is dead, I want every single person involved in this house to watch what happens to people who cross me. And if he’s still breathing, I want the name of every single ledger page she photographed for her father.”
As Adrian walked out of the command center, Nick let out a long, slow breath. Vivian Romano had just signed her own death warrant, she just didn’t know the ink was still wet.
