Chapter 2 - The Man Behind the Castellano Name
The townhouse looked abandoned from the outside.
Inside, it was anything but.
A narrow marble foyer opened into a spacious living room furnished with dark leather sofas, antique paintings, and a fireplace that someone had already prepared.
Two men stood near the entrance.
Neither spoke when Griffin walked past them.
They simply lowered their heads.
I followed at a distance, clutching my briefcase like it could protect me from whatever came next.
"Where exactly are we?" I demanded.
"A safe property."
"Your definition of safe and mine appear to be very different."
"You're alive, aren't you?"
"For the moment."
Griffin removed his coat.
Underneath, he wore a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.
His right sleeve was stained.
I stopped arguing.
"Sit down."
He turned.
"Excuse me?"
"Your arm. You're bleeding through your shirt."
"Marco will handle it."
"Marco is currently speaking into three different phones. Sit."
One of the men near the entrance looked astonished.
Griffin studied me.
Then, inexplicably, he obeyed.
I found a first-aid kit in the kitchen and returned to discover him sitting on the sofa with an almost entertained expression.
"You're enjoying this."
"Not particularly."
"You look entertained."
"I'm unfamiliar with people giving me orders."
"Then congratulations. Tonight is full of new experiences."
He slowly unbuttoned his cuff.
The injury was a shallow cut along his upper arm, likely caused by flying glass.
I cleaned it carefully.
"Does it hurt?"
"Not much."
"Another brilliant medical opinion."
He watched my hands.
"You don't seem frightened of me."
I looked up.
"Should I be?"
"Most people are."
"Most people haven't spent the last eight years working with corporate attorneys."
That earned a quiet laugh.
For a few moments, the man in front of me seemed almost ordinary.
Then his phone vibrated.
He read the message.
The warmth vanished from his face.
"Marco."
The driver entered immediately.
"Yes, boss?"
"The hotel?"
Marco hesitated.
"Fire department responded eleven minutes ago."
My fingers stopped moving.
"Fire?"
Neither man answered.
I reached for Griffin's phone.
"Show me."
He hesitated before handing it over.
A photograph filled the screen.
Flames climbed the side of a modest Manhattan hotel. Emergency vehicles crowded the snow-covered street.
The caption beneath the photograph made my vision blur.
UNCONFIRMED REPORTS OF A FEMALE GUEST MISSING AFTER HOTEL FIRE.
I sank into the nearest chair.
"That's supposed to be me."
Griffin said nothing.
"Someone actually planned this."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you're close to something dangerous."
I stared at him.
"Forty million dollars isn't exactly an ordinary accounting error, Griffin."
"No."
"And your brother is involved."
"Yes."
"Are you?"
His eyes met mine.
It would have been easy for him to lie.
Instead, he said, "I've spent years involved in businesses I won't pretend are innocent."
The room went quiet.
"But Bellwether isn't one of mine."
"Why should I believe you?"
"You shouldn't. Not without evidence."
That answer unsettled me.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Adrian and I inherited different parts of our father's business. He wanted everything. I wanted certain operations kept separate."
"What kind of operations?"
"The kind you're imagining."
"That's hardly reassuring."
"I'm not asking you to approve of my life."
"Good. Because I don't."
He accepted the criticism without argument.
"Three months ago, someone began transferring money from Bellwether into accounts connected to several legitimate companies under my control."
"Without your permission?"
"With forged authorizations."
I stared.
"Your brother is framing you."
"That's one possibility."
"And another?"
"He's preparing to remove me permanently."
Outside, the wind struck the windows.
I suddenly understood why three vehicles had followed us from JFK.
Griffin hadn't simply rescued me.
He had placed himself directly between Adrian and the person whose testimony might expose the entire scheme.
"Who gave you my name?" I asked.
"A contact inside Bellwether."
"Who?"
"Someone who disappeared shortly afterward."
A memory surfaced.
Three months earlier, an anonymous envelope had arrived at my office.
It contained transaction records, a handwritten warning, and a photograph of an offshore transfer authorization.
The handwriting had been hurried.
LOOK AT THE SECOND SIGNATURE. THE FIRST ONE IS FAKE.
I slowly opened my briefcase.
Griffin watched as I removed a thin folder.
"Did your contact send this?"
I slid the photograph toward him.
His entire expression changed.
"Where did you get that?"
"Anonymous delivery."
He picked it up.
I noticed his hand tighten.
"Griffin?"
He turned the photograph over.
On the back was a handwritten number.
11-04-17.
His face lost its color.
"What does it mean?" I asked.
He stared at it for so long I thought he wouldn't answer.
Finally, he spoke.
"November fourth, seventeen years ago."
"And?"
"That's the day my father died."
I frowned.
"Your father died in a boating accident."
"That's what the newspapers said."
His voice had become strangely distant.
He passed the photograph to Marco.
"Get me the original records from the estate."
Marco nodded and left.
I leaned forward.
"Are you saying Bellwether is connected to your father's death?"
Griffin looked at me.
"I'm saying someone has been hiding the same transaction for seventeen years."
"And my case uncovered it?"
"Apparently."
Before I could respond, a security guard appeared in the doorway.
"Mr. Castellano. There's a woman outside."
Griffin straightened.
"Who?"
"She says her name is Sarah Mitchell."
I was already standing.
"Sarah?"
The guard hesitated.
"She says she's Miss Holloway's assistant."
Relief flooded through me.
"Let her in."
But Griffin raised a hand.
"Wait."
He looked toward the security monitor on the wall.
The image showed a woman standing beyond the iron gates, her blonde hair covered in snow.
Sarah.
My best friend for seven years.
The only person who knew where I was supposed to be tonight.
Then Griffin enlarged the image.
A black SUV stood across the street.
And inside it, a man was photographing the townhouse.
Griffin turned toward me.
"Grace, did you tell Sarah this address?"
May you like
"No."
"Then how did she find you?"
