Chapter 3 - THE DRAWING
I stared at the photograph until the edges of my vision blurred.
David.
My husband had been dead for three years. The police told me his car skidded on an icy bridge in upstate New York. A tragic accident. They handed me his wedding ring in a plastic evidence bag and told me to go home to my three-year-old son.
David was a public school teacher. He built birdhouses on the weekends. He burned toast.
Why was he standing next to the most feared man in New York?
I didn’t go to the locker room. I turned around and pushed straight back through the swinging doors into the dining room.
I ignored Marcus hissing my name. I ignored the stares of the wealthy patrons.
I marched directly to Table 23.
Victor was sitting alone, staring at a glass of scotch he hadn’t touched.
I slammed the photograph onto the white linen tablecloth right in front of him.
“Explain this,” I demanded, my voice shaking so hard it cracked.
Victor looked at the photograph. He didn’t look surprised. He looked terribly, infinitely tired.
“Sit down, Anna,” he said softly.
“I won’t sit down. Who are you? How do you know my husband?”
“Sit down,” Victor repeated, his voice carrying that same quiet authority that had broken Ethan Caldwell. “Before the people watching us realize you’re asking questions they don’t want answered.”
A chill ran down my spine. I slid into the chair opposite him, pulling his oversized cashmere coat tighter around my chest.
Victor picked up the photo.
“His name wasn’t David Martinez,” Victor said. “His real name was David DeLuca. He was my younger brother.”
The breath rushed out of my lungs.
“No,” I whispered. “No, David had no family. He grew up in foster care. He told me.”
“He told you what he had to tell you to keep you safe,” Victor said, tracing the edge of the photo. “David hated the life we were born into. He hated the violence. When he met you, he wanted out. So, I helped him disappear. I gave him a new name. A new life. Away from the family. Away from me.”
I stared at him, my mind spinning.
“If he was hidden… how did he die?” I asked, tears finally spilling over my lashes.
Victor looked up, his dark eyes hardening into obsidian.
“It wasn’t an accident on that bridge, Anna. He was murdered.”
I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle a sob.
“Who killed him?” I choked out.
“Richard Caldwell,” Victor stated flatly.
The name hit me like a physical blow. The father of the man who had just assaulted me.
“David discovered that Caldwell was using our legitimate shipping ports to traffic illegal weapons,” Victor explained. “David was going to the FBI. Caldwell found out, tracked him down, and silenced him.”
“Then why…” I looked frantically toward the front doors. “Why did Ethan Caldwell spill water on me tonight? Was it just a coincidence?”
“There are no coincidences with the Caldwells,” Victor said. “Ethan didn’t bump into you by accident. He spilled that water so you would be distracted. So you would leave your station.”
Panic seized my chest.
“Leave my station for what?”
“To get to your locker,” Victor said, standing up. “Where are your keys, Anna?”
I reached into the pocket of my torn skirt.
Empty.
When Ethan had shoved me to the floor, my master key ring had fallen out.
“We need to get to the basement,” Victor ordered, moving faster than I thought a man in a bespoke suit could move.
I ran after him, ignoring the burning pain in my hip. We bypassed the kitchen and took the concrete service stairs down to the staff locker room.
The door was wide open.
I rushed to locker #42.
The metal door was violently pried open, hanging by a single hinge.
My civilian clothes were thrown onto the floor. My cheap purse was ripped open, its contents dumped across the concrete.
“They were looking for something,” Victor said, scanning the mess. “Did David leave anything with you? A document? A flash drive?”
“No!” I cried, falling to my knees to gather my things. “He left nothing! I have nothing!”
Then, I looked up at the inside of the locker door.
My breath caught.
Pinned to the metal with a heavy, serrated hunting knife was a piece of paper.
It was a child’s drawing.
Leo had drawn it for me yesterday. A picture of our tiny apartment, a yellow sun, and a blue stick figure holding a red stick figure’s hand.
But across the yellow sun, someone had written a message in thick, black marker.
WE HAVE UNTIL MIDNIGHT. BRING THE LEDGER, OR THE BOY LOSES HIS MOTHER.
I stared at the knife driven through my son’s drawing.
“Leo,” I screamed, scrambling backward. “My son. They know about Leo!”
May you like
Victor grabbed the drawing, his face twisting into a mask of pure, lethal fury.
“Where is he?” Victor demanded.
