CHAP 2 — THE GRAY SEDAN
“Hold on.”
Vincent barely finished the words before the Maybach surged forward.
Mave was thrown back against the leather seat.
Leo twisted around.
“They’re closing.”
“How many?”
“Three inside.”
The sedan appeared beside them.
Its rear window lowered.
Vincent pulled Mave down.
Glass cracked somewhere behind her.
The driver swerved.
Mave hit Vincent’s chest.
His arm came around her instantly.
“Stay down.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing I want you looking at.”
Another sharp impact struck the car.
The Maybach turned violently onto a side street.
Leo shouted into his phone.
“Second team! Canal and Lafayette. Now!”
Mave smelled burned rubber.
Her heart hammered.
Vincent’s body remained between her and the window.
She realized something unsettling.
He had done it without thinking.
No calculation.
No performance.
Protection had been instinct.
The pursuing sedan vanished after two more turns.
Vincent did not relax.
“Change cars.”
Five minutes later, they entered the underground garage of a private Costa property.
A black SUV waited.
Vincent took Mave upstairs first.
The apartment was almost empty.
No family photographs.
No personal objects.
A safe house.
Mave stood in the center of the living room.
“Start talking.”
Vincent removed his jacket.
There was a shallow cut along his forearm where broken glass had caught him.
Mave noticed.
Ignored it.
“Marcus Vale.”
Vincent looked at her.
“Your father was Marcus Vale.”
“What did he do?”
“He helped build Costa Maritime.”
“I thought your father built it.”
“That’s what the newspapers say.”
“And the truth?”
“The truth is usually more expensive.”
“Vincent.”
He exhaled.
“My father, Alessandro Costa, built the organization. Marcus built the legitimate shipping empire around it.”
Mave stared.
“He was your father’s accountant?”
“More than that.”
Vincent poured water into a glass.
“Strategist. Partner. Friend.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know all of it.”
She laughed bitterly.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if I knew everything, we wouldn’t be standing here.”
Mave crossed her arms.
“The man at the ballroom.”
“Gabriel Vale.”
Her expression changed.
“Vale.”
“Marcus’s younger brother.”
“My uncle?”
“Yes.”
“You told me he should be dead.”
“He disappeared seventeen years ago after a fire at Pier Seventeen.”
“Did he kill my father?”
“No.”
“Did your family?”
Vincent went silent.
That was answer enough to terrify her.
Mave stepped backward.
Vincent did not follow.
“My father died in 2009,” she said.
“That’s what I was told.”
“You were told?”
“I was nineteen.”
“By who?”
“My father.”
Mave stared.
“So your father told you Marcus Vale was dead.”
“Yes.”
“And then you hired Marcus Vale’s daughter.”
“Years later.”
“Why?”
Vincent’s eyes settled on her.
“Because my father asked me to.”
Mave froze.
“When?”
“The night before he died.”
Alessandro Costa had died four years earlier from what newspapers called a sudden cardiac event.
Vincent continued.
“He gave me your name. Your address. Your college records. He said if you ever came looking for work in New York, I was to make sure you stayed close.”
“And you never wondered why?”
“I wondered every day.”
“You could have told me.”
“He made me promise not to.”
“My entire life was a lie and you honored a dead man’s promise instead of telling me?”
Vincent’s voice hardened.
“You were alive because of that promise.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
He walked to a cabinet and removed a file.
Mave stared at it.
Her name was on the cover.
MAVE BENNETT.
Her name.
Her life.
Vincent opened it.
Inside were surveillance photographs.
Some dated before she began working for him.
Mave leaving college.
Mave entering a grocery store.
Mave boarding a train.
Mave at her aunt’s funeral.
Her skin went cold.
“What is this?”
“Reports.”
“You had me followed.”
“No.”
Vincent slid one photograph toward her.
A second figure stood across the street.
Watching Mave.
“We weren’t the first ones.”
She looked up.
“Who was?”
“That’s what my father was trying to find out.”
Mave scanned the reports.
One name appeared repeatedly.
CARMINE.
“Who is Carmine?”
Vincent’s expression changed.
“My uncle.”
“Your uncle was watching me?”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t know?”
“Carmine Costa disappeared fifteen years ago.”
“Everyone in your family seems remarkably good at disappearing.”
Vincent almost smiled.
Almost.
“He was my father’s older brother.”
“What happened?”
“They went to war.”
“Over what?”
Vincent looked at the file.
“Marcus Vale.”
A phone rang.
Not Vincent’s.
Not Mave’s.
The sound came from the kitchen.
Both froze.
Vincent drew a weapon from beneath his shirt.
He moved toward the sound.
Inside the kitchen, a disposable phone sat on the counter.
It had not been there five minutes earlier.
Vincent answered.
A man’s voice said:
“Hello, nephew.”
Vincent’s entire body became still.
Mave watched his face.
The voice continued:
“You’ve kept Marcus’s daughter close. Good.”
Vincent whispered:
“Carmine.”
A soft laugh.
“I knew you’d remember me.”
May you like
Then:
“Tell Mave I’ve been waiting seventeen years to meet her.”
