Victor’s smile thinned. “Then let me speak plainly. Rumors move fast. The morning guards were reassigned. Your doctor came in through the service entrance. Claire ordered children’s clothing to the penthouse. Whatever this is, people are going to notice.”
“Then make sure they notice something else.”
“What do you want spread?”
“That my doctor came because I collapsed from exhaustion.”
Victor blinked.
It was not often I surprised him.
“You want people thinking you’re weak?”
“I want people thinking they know the secret.”
His expression shifted into reluctant approval. “That could work.”
“It will work.”
“And the actual secret?”
“Is mine.”
Victor studied me for several seconds too long.
I leaned back. “You have something to say.”
“A woman came through the lobby this morning,” he said.
My face did not move.
He reached inside his jacket and placed a printed image on the desk.
Margaret Vale.
“Who gave you this?” I asked.
“Someone loyal.”
“Name.”
“Jason—”
“Name.”
His jaw tightened. “Dennis, from overnight security. He was concerned.”
“Dennis is paid to follow instructions, not feed you images.”
“He thought I should know a stranger delivered children into our building.”
“Did he?”
Victor’s eyes sharpened. “Children?”
I had given him that.
Or he had made me give it.
A small mistake. The kind that used to get other men killed.
I stood. “Leave.”
Victor’s expression hardened. “You’re shutting me out.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve protected this organization for fifteen years.”
“You’ve served it.”
“And you.”
“Then keep serving by leaving this room.”
For one second, the old Victor looked back at me—the man who had dragged me behind a dumpster when gunfire tore through a restaurant in Queens, the man who had built routes and alliances and alibis while I built fear. There had been friendship once, or something close enough to be mistaken for it.
Then the mask returned.
“As you wish.”
He turned and walked out, Marco and Ellis following him.
But at the door, Victor paused.
“Bell Harbor,” he said quietly. “Funny how the past never stays buried.”
Every instinct in me went still.
He did not look back.
The door closed.
I remained standing behind my desk, listening to the echo of words that should not have been spoken.
A few minutes later, Claire entered without knocking. Her face told me she already knew something was wrong.
“Victor knows Bell Harbor,” I said.
“You told me he did.”
“No,” I said. “He knows it matters today.”
Claire absorbed that quickly. “How?”
“That’s what we find out.”
Her tablet buzzed. She looked down, then went still.
“What?”
“We found Margaret Vale.”
“Where?”
Claire’s eyes lifted. “In a church basement in Brooklyn.”
Margaret Vale refused to come to Emerald Tower.
That alone made me respect her.
So I went to her.
Not with a convoy. Not with visible guards. Just me, Claire, and one driver who knew how to keep distance without looking like he was keeping distance.
The church sat between a laundromat and a bakery, its brick walls darkened by rain and time. Inside, the basement smelled of coffee, old wood, and lemon cleaner. Folding chairs lined the walls. A bulletin board advertised winter coat donations and piano lessons.
Margaret Vale sat at a plastic table with a paper cup of tea in front of her.
She looked older than the lobby footage, but her eyes were clear. Her blue bird scarf was folded neatly beside her purse.
“You came quickly,” she said.
“You left quickly.”
“I had to.”
“Where is Emma?”