Chapter 1 - The Stranger at JFK Airport
The first mistake I made that Friday night was believing the worst thing that could happen to me was missing a deposition.
The second was accepting a ride from a stranger.
By midnight, I would discover that one of those mistakes had saved my life.
Snow had turned the enormous windows of JFK Airport into white sheets. The departure board flickered with rows of red cancellations, and hundreds of stranded passengers crowded around the airline counters.
I stood beneath the board with a laptop bag cutting into my shoulder, my phone flashing a low-battery warning, and the very unpleasant realization that I might lose the biggest case of my career before it even reached a courtroom.
"Tell me you found something, Sarah."
My assistant sighed through the phone.
"Three hotels are completely booked. The fourth wants almost nine hundred dollars for a room, and they can't guarantee you'll get there with the roads like this."
"Book it."
"Grace."
"Sarah, please."
"You've been awake since five this morning."
I looked down at the coffee stain on my cream-colored blouse.
Six months earlier, I had become the youngest junior partner at Whitmore & Associates. I had spent eight years working toward that promotion, sacrificing vacations, relationships, and practically every weekend.
Tomorrow morning, I was supposed to question Daniel Voss, the former chief financial officer of Bellwether Holdings, during a deposition in Boston.
The case involved nearly forty million dollars in missing corporate funds.
More importantly, it involved people who desperately wanted those funds to remain missing.
"Book the earliest flight you can find," I told Sarah. "I'll deal with tomorrow."
I ended the call.
"Bad evening?"
The voice came from my right.
I turned.
The stranger standing beside me looked completely out of place among the exhausted travelers.
He was tall, perhaps six-foot-three, with dark wavy hair, neatly trimmed stubble, and sharp features that belonged in a luxury watch advertisement.
His charcoal wool coat was perfectly tailored. A silver watch disappeared beneath his cuff.
But it was his eyes that made me hesitate.
Dark. Observant. Unusually calm.
"That depends," I answered. "Are you about to tell me the airport has run out of coffee?"
One corner of his mouth moved.
"Not yet."
"Then there's still hope."
He glanced at my luggage.
"Trying to get into Manhattan?"
"Unfortunately."
"I have a car coming. You're welcome to share it."
I stared at him.
He noticed.
"You're considering whether I'm a serial killer."
"I'm considering several possibilities."
"Reasonable."
He retrieved his phone.
"When the car arrives, check the license plate yourself. Send it to someone you trust. You can sit on whichever side you prefer, and the driver can take you directly to your destination."
That answer surprised me.
Most men attempting to convince a woman to enter their car would have insisted they were harmless.
This one simply gave me options.
"What's your name?"
"Griffin."
"Just Griffin?"
"For now."
I should have walked away.
Instead, thirty minutes later, I watched a black luxury sedan pull up outside the terminal.
Its driver, a broad-shouldered Italian man with graying temples, stepped out and opened the rear door.
"Good evening, sir."
"Marco. This is Grace. We're dropping her off first."
Marco smiled politely.
"Of course, miss."
I photographed the license plate and texted it to Sarah.
Sharing a taxi. Black sedan. Plate attached. Calling you when I arrive.
Then I climbed inside.
The leather seats were warm. The interior smelled faintly of cedar and expensive cologne.
For the first few minutes, neither of us spoke.
I watched the snow sliding down the windshield.
"Business in Boston?" Griffin eventually asked.
"A deposition."
"Lawyer."
"Excellent detective work."
"You have a lawyer's briefcase."
"Maybe I'm selling briefcases."
He glanced at me.
"Then your sales technique needs improvement."
I laughed despite myself.
It was the first genuine laugh I'd managed all day.
"And you?" I asked. "What do you do?"
"Family business."
"What kind?"
"Complicated."
"That sounds suspiciously like something people say when they don't want to answer."
"Occupational hazard."
Marco glanced into the rearview mirror.
Something passed between the two men.
Griffin's smile disappeared.
Marco spoke quietly in Italian.
Griffin answered with three words.
The sedan changed lanes.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Someone may be following us."
I turned toward the rear window.
Two headlights moved through the snowfall.
Then another pair.
"Is that normal for your complicated family business?"
"No."
His expression changed.
"Grace, put your seat belt on properly."
"It already is."
"Good."
He leaned forward.
"Marco. Next exit."
Marco accelerated.
My briefcase slid from my lap.
I bent to retrieve it.
And that was when Griffin suddenly grabbed my shoulder.
"DOWN!"
The rear window exploded.
Glass scattered across the leather seats.
A violent crack echoed through the car.
I screamed.
Griffin pushed me below the window and covered my head with his body as Marco fought to keep the sedan on the slippery road.
"What was that?"
"Stay down!"
Another deafening crack.
Cold air poured through the shattered glass.
I saw Griffin reach beneath his coat.
When his hand appeared again, he was holding a gun.
My blood froze.
"Who are you?"
He didn't answer.
"WHO ARE YOU?"
He looked directly at me.
"Griffin Castellano."
For one second, even the gunfire seemed to fade.
Castellano.
Every New York lawyer knew the name.
The Castellano family had spent decades building a network of legitimate businesses while prosecutors repeatedly investigated suspected connections to organized crime.
And Griffin Castellano was the man newspapers described as the family's most elusive figure.
A Mafia boss.
I had accepted a ride from a Mafia boss.
"Three vehicles," Marco announced.
Griffin looked toward the shattered window.
"Get us off the bridge."
"Maintenance turn ahead."
"Take it."
The car swung sharply onto a narrow service ramp. Snow sprayed against the remaining windows.
I grabbed the seat.
"Are they still following us?"
"Two of them."
"What happened to the third?"
Griffin's silence frightened me more than his answer would have.
Only then did I notice the dark stain spreading across his sleeve.
"You're bleeding."
"It's nothing."
"That's a ridiculous medical diagnosis."
He glanced at me.
"You're very argumentative."
"I'm an attorney. It's literally my job."
I retrieved tissues from my bag and pressed them into his uninjured hand.
"Use these."
For a moment, he simply stared.
Then he looked at me with an expression I couldn't understand.
"What?"
"Nothing."
The sedan turned into an industrial district.
My phone vibrated.
Sarah.
GRACE. WHERE ARE YOU? PLEASE CALL ME.
I attempted to return the call.
My screen went black.
Dead battery.
"Of course," I muttered.
Griffin glanced at my briefcase.
His eyes stopped on the luggage tag.
GRACE HOLLOWAY — WHITMORE & ASSOCIATES.
Something shifted in his expression.
"What's your deposition about?"
"Confidential."
"Is it related to Bellwether Holdings?"
My entire body went still.
"How do you know that?"
"Who's your client?"
"That's privileged information."
"Grace, listen carefully. Is Daniel Voss supposed to testify tomorrow?"
I stared at him.
"How do you know Daniel?"
Griffin leaned back.
For the first time, he looked genuinely troubled.
"Because Bellwether Holdings belongs to my brother."
A terrible silence filled the car.
"Adrian Castellano?" I whispered.
He nodded.
The sedan passed through a pair of iron gates.
I slowly turned toward Griffin.
"Did you know who I was when you approached me at JFK?"
"Yes."
My stomach dropped.
"You didn't randomly offer me a ride."
"No."
"Then why?"
He studied my face before answering.
"Because your name appeared on a list my brother circulated this afternoon."
"What kind of list?"
"The kind people don't survive."
Marco stopped outside an old brick townhouse.
Griffin's phone rang.
He listened for several seconds.
Then his jaw tightened.
"Understood."
He ended the call.
"What happened?" I demanded.
He looked at me.
"Someone made a hotel reservation under your name thirty minutes ago."
"That's impossible. Sarah couldn't find anything."
"I know."
He paused.
"The reservation was made using your corporate account. A woman matching your description was seen entering the building."
I felt the blood drain from my face.
"Why would someone impersonate me?"
Griffin reached for the door handle.
"Because someone intends for the police to believe you were inside when that hotel catches fire."
I stared at him.
And suddenly I understood.
The stranger at JFK hadn't merely offered me transportation.
He had intercepted my murder.
May you like
But the most terrifying question remained unanswered.
Why would a Mafia boss risk his own life to save mine?
