Chapter 2 - BLOOD ON FIFTH AVENUE
Niko moved before I understood what the blinking device meant.
He crushed it beneath the heel of his shoe.
“Marco!”
A man appeared in the doorway almost immediately.
I recognized him from the wedding—a broad-shouldered man in his forties with a scar cutting through one eyebrow.
“West-facing shooter,” Marco said. “Possibly two. Building power was interrupted remotely, but the backup network is active.”
Niko pointed toward the destroyed transmitter.
“Bag it.”
Marco’s expression changed when he saw it.
“Where?”
“Dress.”
Marco looked at me.
I suddenly became painfully conscious of the fact that I was wearing nothing but the oversized shirt.
Niko noticed too.
He stepped between us without a word.
“Get a robe,” he ordered.
Marco disappeared.
“I don’t need—”
“You need shoes.”
“What?”
“In case we move.”
That silenced me.
Niko crouched near the broken windows, keeping away from the exposed angle.
The city glittered hundreds of feet below us as if absolutely nothing had happened.
Yellow taxis moved down Fifth Avenue.
People walked sidewalks.
Traffic lights changed.
Meanwhile someone had just fired bullets into my bedroom.
Niko looked at me.
“Who had access to the dress?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
“I received it yesterday afternoon. Two people delivered it.”
“Names?”
“They didn’t introduce themselves.”
“Man or woman?”
“Two women. Maybe forties. Professional-looking.”
“Did your building staff sign for it?”
“Probably.”
“Probably isn’t enough.”
“I was slightly distracted by being forced into marriage!”
His face tightened.
Then he nodded.
“You’re right.”
I stared.
That was the second apology without the word apology.
Marco returned with a dark robe, flat shoes, and another security guard.
Niko handed me the robe himself but didn’t touch me.
“Put this on.”
I did.
“Where are we going?”
“Safe level.”
“This building has a safe level?”
“This building has several things your realtor probably didn’t mention.”
“I don’t have a realtor.”
For half a second, the edge of his mouth moved.
Then it vanished.
Niko led me through the hallway.
The penthouse looked completely different under emergency lighting.
At least six armed men moved through rooms checking windows, doors, and security screens.
Nobody panicked.
That frightened me more than if they had.
These men had done this before.
The private elevator had been disabled, so Marco opened a steel panel behind what I had assumed was decorative wood.
A narrow staircase appeared.
I looked at Niko.
“Seriously?”
“Move.”
“Right. Mafia panic room. Of course.”
“Not mafia.”
“Organized crime-adjacent architectural planning?”
He almost smiled again.
I realized with bizarre clarity that humor was the only thing preventing me from shaking apart.
We descended two floors.
The safe room was larger than my Manhattan apartment.
Concrete walls.
Medical cabinet.
Water.
Computer screens.
Two couches.
Weapons locked behind steel.
I stopped at the entrance.
“This is insane.”
“This is preparedness.”
“This is not how normal people live.”
Niko looked at me.
“I never claimed to be normal.”
Marco closed the reinforced door behind us.
Niko immediately turned toward several screens.
Security footage appeared.
My apartment building.
My father’s office.
The cathedral.
The street outside.
“You monitor my father?”
“Tonight, yes.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever attacked this building may attack him too.”
The answer struck me with unexpected force.
Despite everything, I pulled out my phone.
No signal.
“Call him.”
Niko handed Marco a secure phone.
“Arthur Shaw. Now.”
Marco dialed.
After several tense seconds, he shook his head.
“No answer.”
My stomach dropped.
“Call his security detail.”
Marco tried.
Nothing.
“Niko.”
He was already moving.
“Get the cars.”
Marco hesitated.
“We don’t know whether the attack was designed to pull you out.”
“I’m aware.”
“Niko.”
He ignored me and checked a weapon magazine.
I stepped closer.
“What are you doing?”
“Going to your father.”
“You think whoever shot at us might be there?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m coming.”
“No.”
I laughed in disbelief.
“You just told me you don’t order me around.”
“This isn’t marriage. This is security.”
“He’s my father.”
“And you’re the target.”
“We don’t know that.”
Niko looked at the destroyed tracker sealed inside an evidence bag.
“It was in your dress.”
My throat tightened.
He came closer.
Not threateningly.
Just enough that his voice didn’t need to rise.
“You stay here.”
“No.”
“Sloane.”
“If my father is in danger because of whatever arrangement he made, I’m not sitting underground while strangers decide whether he lives.”
Something changed in Niko’s face.
Recognition, perhaps.
Maybe he was realizing that the woman described in his investigation report did not exist.
Finally he exhaled.
“You stay beside me.”
“I can do that.”
“You do exactly what I say if something goes wrong.”
“I thought you weren’t ordering me.”
“If bullets start moving, I become extremely controlling.”
“Fine.”
We left through an underground garage I hadn’t known existed.
Three black SUVs waited with engines running.
Niko placed me in the center vehicle and sat beside me.
Marco took the front passenger seat.
Nobody spoke as we moved south.
My phone finally regained service.
Eleven missed calls.
All from Stella.
One text.
CALL ME NOW.
I tapped her name.
She answered immediately.
“Oh my God.”
“Stella?”
“Where are you?”
“With Niko.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I came by your apartment earlier.”
“My apartment?”
“Someone was inside.”
My blood went cold.
“What?”
“I used the emergency key you gave me because you left your constitutional law outline on the kitchen counter. I thought I’d bring it to you tomorrow.”
“Stella.”
“The door was open.”
Niko turned toward me.
I put the call on speaker.
Stella continued, voice shaking.
“Your place was destroyed. Drawers open. Mattress cut. Papers everywhere.”
Niko held out his hand.
I gave him the phone.
“Stella, this is Niko.”
Silence.
Then: “Great. Terrifying. Hello.”
“Did you enter?”
“About three feet.”
“Did you touch anything?”
“No.”
“Where are you now?”
“At my apartment.”
“Leave.”
“What?”
Niko’s tone hardened.
“Take your wallet and phone. Go downstairs. Do not pack. A car will arrive in seven minutes.”
“I’m not getting into a mafia car.”
“Then get into a taxi and risk the person who searched Sloane’s apartment following you.”
Three seconds passed.
“Seven minutes?”
“Seven.”
He ended the call.
I stared at him.
“You’re sending people to Stella?”
“I’m protecting a witness.”
“She’s my best friend.”
“Which makes her useful to anyone trying to control you.”
The words hit me like cold water.
Control me.
My father had used inheritance.
Someone else had used a rifle.
And Niko?
I wasn’t sure yet.
Arthur’s townhouse was surrounded by police when we arrived.
My heart nearly stopped.
Niko’s hand closed around my arm as I reached for the door.
“Wait.”
“Let go.”
He released me immediately.
Marco spoke to someone through an earpiece.
“Medical call. Not police response.”
“What does that mean?”
Niko opened the door.
“It means your father is alive.”
I ran inside.
Arthur Shaw sat in his library with a paramedic checking his blood pressure.
He looked twenty years older than he had Thursday morning.
“Dad.”
His head snapped up.
“Sloane?”
He stood too quickly.
The paramedic protested.
I didn’t care.
I crossed the room.
My father pulled me into his arms.
For one second, I let him.
Then I remembered the cathedral.
The threat.
The lies.
I stepped back.
“What happened?”
Arthur looked beyond me.
He saw Niko.
His face drained of color.
“You brought her here?”
“She insisted.”
“You should have kept her at the penthouse.”
“Someone fired into the penthouse.”
My father stopped breathing.
Niko tossed the evidence bag containing the transmitter onto Arthur’s desk.
“That was sewn into her wedding dress.”
Arthur stared at it.
“What is that?”
“You tell me.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“You arranged the dress.”
My head snapped toward Dad.
“You arranged it?”
Arthur looked at me.
“I—”
“You told me it came from the Santoros.”
“I never said that.”
“You let me believe it.”
“Sloane, please.”
Niko’s voice became frighteningly calm.
“Who made the dress?”
Arthur closed his eyes.
“Dad.”
When he opened them, tears were standing there.
Not theatrical tears.
Not politician tears.
Real ones.
“I need both of you to listen to me.”
Niko didn’t move.
Arthur lowered himself into the chair.
“The dress came from a designer named Helena Vale.”
“Who is she?” I asked.
“She used to work for your mother.”
I stared at him.
“My mother died sixteen years ago.”
“I know.”
“What does that have to do with tonight?”
Arthur looked toward the paramedic.
“Leave us.”
Once the room was empty, he locked the doors.
Then my father—the man who had spent three decades surviving political scandals, hostile interviews, investigations, elections, and enemies—began to shake.
“Your mother’s death wasn’t an accident.”
The world seemed to tilt.
I stared at him.
“What?”
Niko went still beside me.
Arthur’s voice broke.
“The car crash was staged.”
My mouth opened.
No sound came.
“You told me she lost control in the rain.”
“I lied.”
“For sixteen years?”
“I was trying to keep you alive.”
My eyes burned.
“Who killed her?”
Arthur looked at Niko.
That was when I understood the answer somehow involved both our families.
Niko’s expression darkened.
“Arthur.”
My father swallowed.
“Luca Vescari.”
For the first time since I had met him, Niko Santoro looked genuinely stunned.
“Vescari died eight years ago.”
Arthur shook his head.
“No.”
Niko stepped forward.
“We saw the body.”
“You saw a body.”
Silence swallowed the room.
My father reached beneath his desk and removed a worn leather folder.
Inside was a photograph.
Two young women stood on the steps of a summer house.
One was my mother.
I recognized her immediately.
The second woman was unfamiliar.
But Niko clearly knew her.
His face changed.
“My mother.”
Arthur nodded.
I stared between them.
“They knew each other?”
“They were best friends,” Dad whispered.
Niko picked up the photograph with both hands.
His mother had died when he was seventeen.
Heart failure, according to every biography I had ever read.
Niko’s eyes lifted slowly.
“She didn’t die from heart failure, did she?”
My father looked at him.
“No.”
The room went completely silent.
Arthur drew a shaky breath.
“Both your mothers were murdered because they discovered something powerful men were willing to kill to protect.”
He looked at me.
“And sixteen years later, those men believe the evidence has resurfaced.”
I could barely breathe.
“What evidence?”
Arthur glanced at the destroyed transmitter.
Then at the shattered certainty of two people who had entered the room believing they understood their own families.
“A ledger,” he said.
May you like
“A ledger capable of destroying half the people who run this city.”
And somewhere outside the locked library doors, a floorboard creaked.
