Chapter 3 - Everybody Called Him Mr. Russo
I did not get inside.
Maybe that was stubborn.
Maybe stupid.
Probably both.
Anthony came down Riverside’s front steps while two of his men moved toward the curb.
The black SUV was already gone.
“Emma,” he said again. “Inside.”
“Stop ordering me around.”
“I’m not—”
“You absolutely are.”
His jaw worked.
Behind him, people had begun drifting toward the doorway to see what was happening.
Anthony noticed and lowered his voice.
“That vehicle photographed you.”
“I noticed.”
“We don’t know why.”
“We?”
His eyes hardened with frustration.
“Please don’t do this out here.”
“Do what? Ask questions?”
“Stand on the sidewalk after somebody connected to a property dispute just photographed you.”
That stopped me.
Not because I wanted it to.
Because he was right.
I hated that.
I followed him inside.
Not because Anthony Russo had told me to.
I repeated that distinction in my head several times.
We went into Louise’s office.
Louise entered behind us and shut the door.
One of Anthony’s security men remained outside.
Louise looked between us.
“I’m assuming there is something I don’t know.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Join the club.”
Anthony took the insult without reacting.
Louise sat behind her desk.
“Start talking.”
Most people did not speak to Anthony Russo that way.
Apparently Louise had never received the memo.
Anthony respected it.
“Lakefront Urban Holdings isn’t a normal developer.”
“You know them?” she asked.
“I know who is behind them.”
“Who?”
“Grant Holloway.”
I recognized the name.
Holloway Development had transformed sections of downtown Rochester over the previous decade.
Luxury apartments.
Office buildings.
Restaurants.
Parking structures.
Grant Holloway appeared in newspapers holding ceremonial shovels beside mayors and council members.
He sponsored charity galas.
His photograph appeared in business magazines beneath headlines about revitalization.
Louise frowned.
“Why would he hide behind another company?”
“Because Lakefront isn’t buying properties for redevelopment permits yet. They’ve been quietly assembling parcels.”
“For what?”
Anthony looked at the old neighborhood map pinned to Louise’s wall.
“Freight access.”
I remembered his man mentioning property filings.
“What does Riverside have to do with freight?”
Anthony pointed at the map.
The center sat three blocks from an old industrial corridor.
Rail line on one side.
Highway connector on the other.
Most of the surrounding warehouses had been half-empty for years.
“Holloway has been buying buildings along this strip through different companies,” Anthony said. “If he controls enough parcels, he can build a private distribution complex.”
Louise shrugged.
“Then he can build around us.”
“He can.”
Anthony’s voice went flat.
“That’s why I’m concerned.”
I crossed my arms.
“Because?”
“Because people don’t create six shell companies just because they’re patient.”
The office became quiet.
Louise leaned back.
“How do you know this?”
Anthony looked at her.
“My companies operate freight routes.”
Of course.
One of the rumors.
Freight.
Warehouses.
Construction.
Louise understood too.
“And Holloway is competing with you.”
“Yes.”
There it was.
I looked at Anthony.
“So your concern isn’t Riverside. It’s business.”
His eyes moved toward me.
“No.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect nothing from you right now.”
That answer irritated me more because it was restrained.
He continued.
“Holloway wants the corridor because the city is considering incentives for a regional distribution project. Whoever controls the property will control the contract.”
“And you want it instead.”
“No.”
I laughed.
“Anthony.”
“I already own property farther north that could handle the same project without displacing anybody.”
“Convenient.”
“It’s also true.”
Louise raised a hand.
“Children.”
We both looked at her.
“I am seventy-four years old. I don’t have the patience to referee whatever romantic catastrophe is happening between you.”
“There is no romantic catastrophe,” I said.
Anthony looked at the floor.
Louise noticed.
“Sure.”
She turned back to him.
“What happens now?”
“I’ll have attorneys review every filing connected to Riverside. Nobody signs anything. Nobody meets inspectors without confirming their identification with the city directly.”
“You paying for those attorneys?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Anthony blinked.
Louise leaned forward.
“You want to help? Fine. But Riverside does not become a Russo property because we couldn’t afford lawyers.”
“I wasn’t asking for ownership.”
“I’ve lived long enough to know expensive favors usually come with receipts.”
Something moved across Anthony’s face.
Respect, maybe.
“I’ll send the attorney invoice to my charitable foundation. No lien. No ownership. No repayment.”
Louise narrowed her eyes.
“You have a charitable foundation?”
“Quietly.”
I almost laughed.
Of course.
The mafia boss had a secret charity.
Everything about the afternoon felt ridiculous.
Louise looked at me.
“You trust him?”
“No.”
Anthony’s expression didn’t change.
Louise nodded.
“Good. Then you can watch the paperwork.”
“What?”
“You’re helping me.”
“Louise—”
“You print half our forms anyway.”
Anthony almost smiled.
I glared at him.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I value my life.”
Louise pointed toward the door.
“Both of you out. I have donors to thank.”
In the hallway, I started walking toward the main room.
Anthony followed at a respectful distance.
“Emma.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
That was not what I expected.
“For what part?”
“All of it.”
“That’s vague.”
“For telling you Ryan instead of Anthony. For allowing you to believe my work was simpler than it is. For putting you in a position where you learned the truth in a room full of strangers.”
“At least you know it was awful.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
He knew what I meant.
Why lie?
Why hide?
He looked toward the crowd.
“Because the first night, you didn’t know who I was.”
“That’s your explanation?”
“It’s part of it.”
“Try the other part.”
Anthony was silent for several seconds.
Then he said, “People behave differently when they know my name.”
I almost laughed.
“You think?”
“You didn’t.”
“Because I didn’t know it.”
“Exactly.”
The answer came too quickly.
Too honestly.
I stared at him.
“You wanted to see how long you could fool me.”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I wanted one dinner where nobody wanted something.”
His voice had changed.
Quieter.
“You invited me to your table because you felt sorry for me.”
“I did not feel sorry for you.”
“You told me I was afraid of calamari five minutes after meeting me.”
“You were.”
“I still disagree.”
Despite everything, the corner of my mouth threatened to move.
I hated that too.
Anthony saw it.
His expression softened.
“Emma, I didn’t sit beside you because I knew who you were. I didn’t arrange your canceled date. I didn’t arrange mine.”
“You expect me to believe the empty chair was actually an accident?”
“Yes.”
“Who was she?”
He paused.
“Who?”
“Your date.”
Something unexpected happened.
Anthony looked embarrassed.
“Daniel set it up.”
“Daniel?”
“My attorney.”
“Your attorney arranges dates?”
“He believed I needed what he called a normal social life.”
I stared at him.
“Anthony Russo got stood up on a blind date arranged by his lawyer?”
“Yes.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
Several people turned.
Anthony sighed.
“I knew you’d enjoy that.”
“That may be the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“She texted twenty minutes later. She recognized my name from the reservation and decided she didn’t want the attention.”
My laughter faded.
“Oh.”
He shrugged.
“She was probably smart.”
Something about how easily he said it made me uncomfortable.
Not dangerous.
Lonely.
I remembered the empty chair.
For the first time, I considered the possibility that it had hurt him too.
That didn’t erase what he had done.
“You should have told me after.”
“Yes.”
“After the first dinner.”
“Yes.”
“The second?”
“Yes.”
“The third?”
“Yes.”
“At some point you just kept deciding not to.”
“Yes.”
No excuses.
I appreciated that against my will.
“I need space.”
Anthony nodded immediately.
“Okay.”
“No texts.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
“No random coffee.”
“Understood.”
“No sending somebody to fix my shop sign.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You absolutely thought about it.”
Silence.
“Once.”
I pointed at him.
“Space.”
A faint smile.
“Space.”
I walked away.
For the next four days, Anthony kept his promise.
No messages.
No calls.
No visits.
Which should have made me feel relieved.
Instead, every time my phone buzzed, part of me expected his name.
It wasn’t there.
I became annoyed with myself for noticing.
On Wednesday morning, a courier entered Corner Print & Copy.
“Emma Hayes?”
“That’s me.”
He handed me a large envelope.
No return address.
Inside was a photograph.
Riverside Neighborhood Center.
Taken from across the street.
The restored marquee glowing.
On the back, four words had been printed in black marker.
TELL RUSSO TO WALK AWAY.
My stomach turned.
Mia looked up from the copier.
“You okay?”
Before I could answer, something fell from the envelope.
A second photograph.
This one showed me leaving my apartment the previous morning.
I stopped breathing.
Mia came around the counter.
“Emma?”
I grabbed my phone.
There were dozens of people I could call.
Police.
Louise.
Friends.
For four days I had told myself I wanted Anthony Russo out of my life.
My thumb hovered over his contact.
Ryan.
I had never changed the name.
I pressed call.
He answered before the first full ring.
“Emma?”
No greeting.
No hesitation.
He knew something was wrong from the fact I had called.
I looked at the photograph of myself.
“Anthony.”
His voice changed immediately.
“What happened?”
I swallowed.
“Someone sent me a message.”
Silence.
Then:
“Where are you?”
“At the shop.”
“Lock the door.”
“Anthony—”
“Emma, lock the door.”
This time I did not argue.
“Then what?”
“I’m coming.”
The line disconnected.
Nine minutes later, three black SUVs stopped outside Corner Print & Copy.
And as Anthony stepped onto the sidewalk, I realized something that frightened me more than the photographs.
Whoever had sent them did not see me as Emma Hayes anymore.
May you like
They saw me as something belonging to Anthony Russo.
And if that was true, my quiet little life had just become part of a fight I had never agreed to enter.
