Chapter 6 - Someone Was Watching Emily Carter
By the time we reached Marino Tower, the forty-second floor looked perfectly normal.
That was the first sign something was wrong.
No screaming.
No broken furniture.
No alarms.
Employees sat at desks.
Phones rang.
Monitors glowed.
Everything functioned with the polished efficiency of any major corporate office.
Except Marco was waiting beside the elevators with a gun beneath his jacket and fury in his eyes.
“Three men came up twenty minutes ago.”
“Where?”
“Gone.”
“What did they want?”
“Your office.”
Dante walked fast.
I followed.
My desk had been searched.
Not obviously.
Professionally.
Drawers returned to position.
Paper stacks aligned.
But I knew my desk.
My stapler sat two inches left of where I kept it.
The locked drawer containing backup drives had scratches near the latch.
“They were looking for something,” I said.
Dante entered his office.
Nothing seemed disturbed.
Marco shook his head.
“Security footage?”
“Looped for eleven minutes.”
“Inside help?”
“Has to be.”
I looked toward Brooke’s desk.
Empty.
Her handbag was gone.
Computer powered down.
I touched the back of her monitor.
Cold.
She had left before the breach.
“She knew.”
Dante stood beside me.
“You think Brooke helped them?”
“I think she was terrified.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“No.”
I opened her personnel file.
Brooke Ellis.
Twenty-seven.
Hired eighteen months ago.
Mother deceased.
Father listed as unknown.
Address in Lakeview.
References clean.
Too clean.
“You ran background checks?”
“Of course.”
“Run them again.”
Marco left.
Dante looked at me.
“You’re coming home.”
“I have work.”
“I don’t care.”
“That’s touching.”
“Emily.”
“There are payroll files due tomorrow.”
“Cancel payroll.”
I stared.
“You want seven hundred employees to miss checks because someone searched my desk?”
“Yes.”
“That may be the most mafia thing you’ve ever said.”
His jaw tightened.
“This is not funny.”
“No.”
I closed Brooke’s file.
“But panic doesn’t make us smarter.”
Dante lowered his voice.
“You were attacked in my house.”
“Yes.”
“Your brother was manipulated.”
“Yes.”
“Your assistant may be connected to Anthony.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re worried about direct deposits.”
“Yes.”
He stared.
“Why?”
“Because routine matters.”
The answer surprised him.
It surprised me too.
I looked around the office.
“When my parents died, everything changed overnight. When Noah got sick, everything changed again. Bills were still due. Groceries still needed buying. Work still expected me at nine.”
I swallowed.
“Routine keeps chaos from winning.”
Dante said nothing.
Then quietly: “Clara used to say something similar.”
“What?”
“She made Sunday dinner no matter what happened that week.”
A faint softness entered his voice.
“She said if the world was burning, we could at least eat pasta.”
I smiled.
“I would have liked her.”
He looked at me.
“She would have liked you.”
The words hung between us.
Too intimate.
Too meaningful.
We both turned away.
Marco returned.
“Brooke’s records are fake.”
Of course.
“How fake?” I asked.
“Social Security number belongs to a woman who died at age four.”
Dante’s expression sharpened.
“Real name?”
“Working on it.”
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I opened the message.
You want Brooke alive? Come alone.
Location attached.
An underground parking garage near the river.
Dante saw it.
“No.”
“Expected.”
“You are not going.”
“I know.”
He paused.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
His suspicion increased.
“That was too easy.”
“It’s obviously a trap.”
“Good.”
“So we make them think I came alone.”
He closed his eyes.
“No.”
“Dante.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know the plan.”
“I know enough.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. The plan involves you doing something reckless while pretending it’s logical.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
Marco looked between us.
“I can leave.”
“No,” we said together.
He sighed.
We built the plan anyway.
At 8:00 p.m., I drove my own car into the garage.
Alone.
Apparently.
Two blocks away, Dante and Marco monitored through a transmitter in my necklace.
Three vehicles positioned nearby.
I parked on level four.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
My palms were damp.
Fear had finally found energy.
I stepped out.
“Brooke?”
No answer.
I walked between concrete columns.
Then a voice.
“You came.”
Brooke emerged from behind a parked SUV.
Her face was bruised.
I stopped.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Where are they?”
“They’re watching.”
“Who?”
She looked toward a security camera.
“My grandfather.”
Anthony.
I stayed calm.
“Anthony Marino is your grandfather.”
“Yes.”
“Your mother was Margaret.”
Brooke nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t know until three years ago.”
“What happened?”
“My mother raised me under different names. We moved constantly.”
“Why?”
“She stole something.”
“What?”
“Information.”
Clara’s evidence?
“No,” Brooke said. “Something bigger.”
Footsteps echoed.
Two men appeared.
Guns visible.
I stayed still.
Dante’s voice crackled faintly through my earpiece.
“Emily, get down.”
I ignored him.
One man stepped forward.
“Phone.”
I handed it over.
He smashed it.
Predictable.
“Walk.”
They led us toward a service corridor.
Dante whispered again.
“Ten seconds.”
Brooke looked at me.
“You shouldn’t have come.”
“I’m frequently told that.”
Despite everything, she almost smiled.
Then lights went out.
Dante’s team moved.
Shouts.
Footsteps.
One gunshot struck concrete.
I grabbed Brooke and pulled her behind a pillar.
Marco tackled one man.
Dante disarmed the other.
Within seconds it was over.
Dante stormed toward me.
“What part of get down was unclear?”
“The floor was filthy.”
He stared.
Then wrapped one arm around me.
Hard.
Unexpected.
For a second, neither of us moved.
His voice was low near my ear.
“You’re impossible.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
He released me quickly.
Brooke stared.
“Oh.”
I turned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
It was definitely something.
We brought Brooke to a secure property.
Under questioning, she told us everything.
Margaret Marino was Anthony’s daughter from an affair.
Anthony kept her existence secret but later used her as a financial courier.
Margaret discovered he was financing an international laundering network.
When she tried to leave, he threatened Brooke, who was then a child.
Margaret disappeared with records.
Years later, she contacted Clara.
The night before the car bomb, Margaret gave Clara information at St. Matthew’s.
“What happened to your mother?” I asked.
Brooke’s eyes filled.
“She died four years ago.”
“How?”
“Officially? Car accident.”
Dante’s expression darkened.
“You think Anthony.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you come work for me?” I asked.
“To find Clara’s evidence.”
My heart sank.
“You used me.”
“At first.”
The admission hurt more than expected.
“Then why warn me today?”
“Because you treated me like a person.”
Brooke wiped her eyes.
“And because Anthony’s network changed. He’s not in control anymore.”
Dante leaned forward.
“Explain.”
“My mother said there was someone above him.”
“Who?”
“She never knew the real name.”
“What did she call him?”
Brooke hesitated.
“The Architect.”
The room went still.
“How dramatic,” I muttered.
Dante glanced at me.
“Sorry.”
Brooke continued.
“The Architect built the financial network. Anthony ran Chicago, but he answered to someone else.”
“Where does Sal fit?”
“He discovered the current transfers.”
“Then why move three million?”
“He was forced.”
“By whom?”
Brooke looked at Dante.
“Someone holding his daughter.”
Dante’s face hardened.
That changed everything.
Sal had not betrayed him.
He had been trying to save his child.
“What about Vincent?” Dante asked.
“He was investigating Anthony.”
My stomach dropped.
“Then his meeting with Sal—”
“They were working together.”
Vincent had not betrayed Dante either.
He had died trying to help.
Dante leaned back.
For nine years he had trusted enemies and suspected allies.
The realization cut deep.
“Where is Sal now?”
Brooke shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
“His daughter?”
“Alive, last I heard.”
“Where?”
“There’s a property.”
She gave an address.
Industrial edge of Cicero.
Dante stood.
“We go now.”
Brooke grabbed his arm.
“No.”
He looked down.
“It’s a trap.”
“Everything is a trap.”
“This one is different.”
“How?”
She swallowed.
“Because Anthony expects you.”
Dante smiled without humor.
“Good.”
Brooke’s face went pale.
“You don’t understand.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t want you dead.”
“Then what does he want?”
Brooke looked at me.
And I knew before she spoke.
“He wants Emily.”
Dante turned toward me.
I almost laughed.
Of course.
Because apparently my job description now included being the center of an organized-crime conspiracy.
“Why?” he asked.
Brooke whispered:
“Because Emily’s brother photographed the one man the Architect has spent nine years hiding.”
Noah.
Again.
Dante stepped closer.
“What photograph?”
Brooke looked at me.
“I don’t know.”
“But Anthony thinks she does.”
“Yes.”
Dante’s eyes hardened.
Then Brooke said the sentence that changed everything.
“The man in that photograph is the same doctor who destroyed Noah Carter’s mind.”
Silence.
My hands went cold.
For eight years, I had blamed genetics.
Stress.
Bad luck.
Now I was hearing something else.
Someone had deliberately pushed my brother into darkness.
I stood.
“Give me the address.”
Dante stared at me.
“No.”
I looked at him.
“Give me the address, Brooke.”
Dante stepped between us.
“Emily.”
“They did this to Noah.”
“I know.”
“They stole eight years.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know.”
My voice broke.
“You don’t know what it is like to visit someone you love every week and wonder if the person you remember is ever coming back.”
Dante’s face changed.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
“I do.”
I stopped.
Clara.
Of course.
He knew exactly what it meant to lose someone and still carry them daily.
His voice softened.
“That is why we do this carefully.”
I looked at him.
For once, I agreed.
We left for Cicero at midnight.
None of us knew that someone had already reached Sal first.
And on the wall beside the chair where they found him, written in black marker, were four words meant specifically for me:
May you like
ASK NOAH ABOUT DR. VOSS.
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