THE LIE SPOKEN THROUGH THE SPEAKER

Vincent’s words hung in the study, defying all logic.

“Why would she want to be arrested?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Vincent stared at the fake emerald necklace. The calculated calm he maintained was cracking, revealing the sharp, strategic mind beneath.

“Because if she’s sitting in a police interrogation room,” Vincent said slowly, “she has an airtight alibi.”

My brow furrowed. “An alibi for what?”

Vincent didn’t answer. He turned sharply and grabbed the heavy brass phone on his desk, hitting the intercom button.

“Miles.”

“Yes, boss.” The security head’s voice crackled through the speaker.

“Lock down the estate,” Vincent ordered. “Nobody enters. Nobody leaves. Drop the steel gates and kill the perimeter lights.”

“Done. What’s the threat?”

“Inside the house,” Vincent said grimly. “Where is Frank?”

There was a brief pause. “He hasn’t left the property, sir. I saw him walk toward the main garage five minutes ago to collect his personal items.”

Vincent hung up the phone.

He looked at me. “Stay here. Lock the door.”

He didn’t wait for my answer. He strode out of the study, his long legs eating up the hallway distance.

I wasn’t going to stay in the room.

My father had raised me on the South Side. You don’t lock yourself in a box when there’s a fire; you find the exit. And right now, staying close to Vincent Marino felt like the only safe place in Chicago.

I hurried after him, my soft catering shoes making no sound on the imported rugs.

We reached the heavy fire doors leading to the main garage.

The garage was a massive, climate-controlled cavern that held Vincent’s vintage car collection and the daily drivers. The lights were mostly off, except for a harsh halogen work lamp shining from the far corner.

Vincent pushed the door open. I slipped in right behind him.

The smell of oil and damp concrete filled the air.

Under the halogen lamp sat the damaged black sedan Caroline had driven. The front left quarter panel was crumpled, the headlight shattered.

Laying on a mechanic’s creeper, slid halfway under the front axle of the ruined car, was Frank.

“Frank,” Vincent called out, his voice echoing in the large space.

Frank flinched, hitting his head on the undercarriage. He rolled out from under the car, wiping grease from his forehead with a rag.

“Mr. Marino,” Frank said, looking surprised. “I thought you were at the hospital. I was just... I wanted to see the damage for myself. Since my name was attached to it.”

Vincent walked over to the car. He looked down at the dark, viscous puddle pooling near the front left tire.

“What did you find?” Vincent asked.

Frank stood up. He looked deeply troubled. He held out the rag. It was soaked in dark amber fluid.

“Brake fluid, sir,” Frank said quietly.

Vincent crouched down, shining the flashlight from his phone into the wheel well.

“The line ruptured in the crash?” Vincent asked.

Frank shook his head slowly.

“No, sir,” the older man said. “I’ve been working on cars for forty years. A ruptured line frays at the edges from the pressure burst. This line is completely clean. It was severed. Snipped with heavy-duty wire cutters.”

My stomach dropped.

Caroline had claimed she hit the woman in a panic. But if the brake lines were cut...

“Someone sabotaged the car,” I said aloud.

Frank looked at me, then back to Vincent.

“That’s the strange part, miss,” Frank said, wiping his hands nervously. “If someone cut the brakes to cause the accident... there wouldn’t be fluid pooling right here. It would have bled out on the street miles away when the brakes failed.”

Vincent stood up slowly.

He looked at the puddle on the concrete.

“The fluid is pooling here,” Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly quiet, “because the line was cut after the car was parked in this garage.”

The three of us stood in absolute silence.

Caroline hadn’t hit Margaret because her brakes failed. She had run her down intentionally.

And someone inside the garage had crawled under the car after she returned, snipped the brake line, and staged it to look like sabotage.

“Caroline wanted to be arrested,” Vincent murmured, putting the final pieces together. “She wanted to be safe in police custody tonight. Because she knew whoever she hired to kill me wasn’t going to wait for Italy.”

He looked at Frank. “Who has access to this garage besides you?”

Frank swallowed hard. “Just the security team, sir. And Miles.”

Before Vincent could speak, the heavy garage doors behind us suddenly locked with a loud, metallic CLANG.

The electronic keypad on the wall blinked from green to solid red.

The main power in the garage died.

The only light left was the single halogen work lamp shining on the puddle of brake fluid.

From the shadows near the tool chests, footsteps echoed against the concrete.

Slow. Deliberate.

A figure stepped into the edge of the light.

It was Miles.

He was holding a suppressed 9mm pistol. And it was aimed directly at Vincent’s chest.

“Nothing personal, boss,” Miles said, his voice flat and professional. “But the Romanos pay better. And they offer a better retirement package.”

Frank immediately stepped in front of Vincent, raising his hands. “Miles, son, put the gun down. You don’t want to do this.”

“Move, old man,” Miles warned.

Vincent didn’t flinch. He didn’t hide behind Frank. He gently gripped Frank’s shoulder and moved the older man aside, stepping fully into the line of fire.

“You cut the brake line,” Vincent said calmly.

“I did,” Miles nodded. “Caroline is a messy woman. She panicked when the nanny found out about the Romano debt. She ran the woman down, then called me in tears. I told her to get arrested. It gives her an alibi, and it gets her out of the house so I can finish the contract.”

“You’re going to shoot me in my own garage?” Vincent asked. “You’ll never make it out of the estate.”

Miles smiled thinly. “I’m the head of security, Vincent. I control the cameras. I control the gates. The official report will say your disgruntled driver, Frank, got drunk, crashed the car, and shot you when you fired him. Then I heroically shot Frank.”

Miles shifted his aim, pointing the gun at Frank.

“But what about the caterer?” Miles asked, his eyes sliding toward me.

I pressed my back against the cold metal of the damaged sedan. My injured hand throbbed in time with my racing heart.

“She’s a loose end,” Miles decided.

He raised the weapon toward my face.

My breath caught in my throat.

“No,” Vincent said.

It wasn’t a shout. It was a low, guttural command.

Vincent’s hand moved faster than I could process. He reached into his overcoat pocket.

He didn’t pull out a gun.

He pulled out the heavy, fake emerald necklace.

With a violently swift motion, Vincent hurled the heavy velvet box and the metal necklace directly at the halogen work lamp.