Chapter 2 - Lock the Door
I had survived men with guns, federal investigations, betrayals from people whose children I had held at christenings, and enough funerals to understand that loyalty often lasted exactly as long as fear did.
Yet nothing unsettled me quite like the expression on Grace Miller's face.
She wasn't trying to impress me.
She wasn't asking for money.
She wasn't even asking to be protected.
She looked like a woman who had accidentally opened the wrong door and discovered a room full of things she could never unsee.
“Who are they bringing?” I asked.
Grace approached the bed cautiously.
“I don't know his name.”
“Describe him.”
“I haven't seen him.”
“Then what did you hear?”
Her eyes moved toward the monitor.
“Should your heart be doing that?”
The rate had increased.
“Probably not.”
That almost made her laugh.
Almost.
Then she remembered where she was.
“Yesterday I was cleaning Miss Hale's guest room at the penthouse.”
“Veronica has a guest room?”
Grace blinked.
“Technically, you call it the east suite.”
“I call most rooms things I never enter.”
That time a tiny smile escaped her.
Good.
Fear made people careless.
A little humor gave them air.
“Keep going.”
Grace folded her hands.
“Miss Hale came in with Mr. Rusk.”
Sam.
My attorney.
“They didn't know I was in the bathroom.”
“What did they say?”
“She asked if the doctor would cooperate.”
My jaw tightened.
“Michael?”
“She didn't say a name.”
That mattered.
Michael Rosen had orchestrated the false coma. If Veronica knew, I'd already be dead.
“What else?”
“Mr. Rusk said the hospital wasn't the difficult part. He said the signatures were.”
“Signatures on what?”
“I don't know.”
Grace swallowed.
“Then Miss Hale asked if Anthony had found someone who could make your hand look convincing.”
There it was.
Forgery.
Not merely waiting for me to die.
Preparing the paperwork first.
“What happens Friday?” I asked.
“She said, ‘Once it's Friday, Dominic becomes an obstacle instead of an owner.’”
I stared at the ceiling.
Sam Rusk had helped draft my asset structure.
Several holding companies required my direct authorization for changes. Others transferred temporary control after death, depending on pending acquisition dates and contractual triggers.
Friday.
I searched my memory.
Then I found it.
The Bellhaven transaction.
For almost two years, my legal investment company had been assembling waterfront property across Brooklyn and Queens through legitimate acquisitions. On Friday at midnight, a final financing condition expired.
If I died before then, certain controlling interests moved automatically into a temporary trust.
The trustee?
Samuel Rusk.
And the secondary beneficiary after charitable distributions?
Veronica Hale.
I had approved that structure eighteen months ago, before our engagement.
At the time, it had seemed harmless.
Now it looked like a map leading directly to my grave.
“How much?” Grace whispered.
I looked at her.
“What?”
“The money they're doing this for.”
“Enough.”
“How much is enough?”
“About six hundred and eighty million dollars.”
Grace sat down.
Actually sat.
In the chair beside my bed.
“People kill someone for that?”
“People kill someone for twenty dollars.”
She stared at me.
I immediately regretted saying it.
Grace didn't come from my world.
She shouldn't have had to understand it.
“Listen to me,” I said. “You can walk out.”
Her eyes lifted.
“You haven't told anyone I'm awake. Keep it that way. Go home. Don't come back.”
“And then?”
“I handle it.”
“How?”
“That's not your problem.”
Grace studied me.
“You're lying in a hospital bed pretending to be unconscious while your fiancée plans your death.”
“Yes.”
“And your plan is that this isn't my problem?”
“Yes.”
“That isn't a very good plan.”
I looked at her for several seconds.
Nobody who worked for me spoke like that.
Maybe that was why I needed someone who didn't really work for me.
“What did you mean when you said they're bringing someone tonight?”
Grace lowered her voice.
“When I was leaving the penthouse, Mr. Anthony called Miss Hale. She put him on speaker because she was changing clothes.”
“And?”
“He said, ‘The notary gets there after eleven. Do it while the floor is quiet.’”
My eyes narrowed.
A notary.
They intended to authenticate a signature while I was supposedly comatose.
“That doesn't make sense,” I said. “No legitimate notary would certify my signature if I'm unconscious.”
Grace gave me a look that answered the question.
Right.
Legitimate.
“What else?”
“Anthony asked about the cameras.”
“What did Veronica say?”
“‘Already handled.’”
That was worse.
Someone inside the hospital was cooperating.
I looked at the clock.
4:42 p.m.
Seven hours until eleven.
“Grace, I need my phone.”
“Your phone?”
“Anthony has it.”
“How do you know?”
“He took it from the ambulance.”
She frowned.
“Why would he—”
“Because Anthony does thoughtful things when he's stealing.”
I needed another way to communicate.
“Do you have a phone?”
Grace instinctively reached toward her apron.
Then stopped.
“You're not going to call someone dangerous, are you?”
“Everyone I know is dangerous.”
She didn't find that reassuring.
“Grace.”
Slowly, she handed me her phone.
Cheap case.
Cracked corner.
A photograph filled the lock screen.
Grace beside an older woman.
Her mother, probably.
I looked away.
“Unlock it.”
She did.
I typed a number from memory.
Michael Rosen answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Don't say my name.”
Silence.
Then, “Understood.”
“We have a problem.”
“I assumed that when the coma patient called me.”
“Someone's coming after eleven with documents.”
Another silence.
“Who knows?”
“Grace.”
Michael knew exactly who I meant.
“The housekeeper?”
“She isn't a housekeeper.”
Grace looked at me.
I corrected myself.
“Apparently she's the only person in New York paying attention.”
Michael exhaled.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing changes. I remain unconscious.”
“Dominic—”
“Tonight we let them come.”
Grace shook her head violently.
I ignored her.
“If they bring forged documents, I want names, faces, and recordings.”
Michael understood.
“You're setting a trap.”
“No. I'm watching one that's already been set for me.”
Grace took the phone when I finished.
“You're really going to let them into the room?”
“Yes.”
“What if they don't just bring papers?”
“Then Michael will be nearby.”
“Is Michael bulletproof?”
“No.”
“Then that is not comforting.”
I looked at her.
“What do you suggest?”
“Tell the police.”
That answer reminded me how far apart our lives were.
“Which police?”
“The police police.”
“Very specific.”
Her face hardened.
“A man is dead, Mr. Moretti.”
That silenced me.
“Nico,” she continued. “Your driver.”
I stared at her.
She knew his name.
“Everyone keeps talking about your money. Your companies. Your family.”
Her voice softened.
“But somebody died in that car.”
The words landed harder than they should have.
Because she was right.
I had been treating Nico's death like evidence.
Not loss.
I closed my eyes.
Nico had a wife.
Two grown daughters.
A grandson whose birthday party I had missed three months earlier because of a meeting I no longer remembered.
Grace stood beside me.
“I'm sorry.”
“No.”
I opened my eyes again.
“Don't be.”
A quiet knock came from the door.
Both of us froze.
“Ms. Miller?” a nurse called. “Everything okay?”
Grace looked at me.
I closed my eyes immediately.
My body went loose.
She unlocked the door.
The nurse entered.
Grace began arranging the lilies.
“Everything's fine,” she said.
The nurse checked my IV.
My monitor.
My pupils.
I remained still.
Then footsteps approached outside.
Heavier.
Familiar.
Anthony.
His voice came from the hallway.
“Is Veronica here?”
“No, sir.”
“Good.”
He entered.
My cousin stopped when he saw Grace.
For the first time since I'd known her, someone important actually noticed the maid.
Anthony looked at the flowers.
Then at Grace.
Then at me.
“What are you doing here?”
Grace lowered her gaze perfectly.
“Mrs. Hale asked for fresh flowers.”
Mrs. Hale.
Interesting choice.
Anthony relaxed.
He walked beside my bed.
For several seconds, he stared down at me.
Then he leaned close.
“So this is how it ends, cousin?”
My blood ran cold.
Anthony placed one hand on the railing.
“You always said you'd leave me something.”
He smiled.
“Turns out you're leaving me everything.”
Then he walked away.
Grace waited until the door closed.
She didn't speak.
Neither did I.
Because Anthony's words had just revealed something neither of us had understood.
Veronica wasn't planning this alone.
And if Anthony expected to inherit everything, then somebody had promised the same fortune to two different traitors.
That meant one of them was being used.
The question was which one.
May you like
And at eleven o'clock that night, we were about to find out.
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