Chapter 2 - The Trap at the Penthouse
The rain had started to fall over Manhattan by six o'clock, turning the streets into wet, black ribbons reflecting the neon signs of Broadway.
Inside the sleek, private elevator of the Tribeca luxury tower, Anthony stood beside Christina. His tailored suit jacket was slightly damp from the dash across the sidewalk, and his silk tie was loosened at the collar. His face was flushed, his jaw working continuously as he stared at the digital floor indicator climbing toward the penthouse.
"I'm telling you, it's just a temporary glitch," Anthony muttered to Christina, though he was trying harder to convince himself than her. "Her father probably panicked and ordered a temporary freeze on the corporate accounts. It doesn't mean anything. My legal team will have an emergency injunction by tomorrow morning."
Christina crossed her arms, her bright red dress looking out of place in the muted gray aesthetic of the private building. "Anthony, my card was declined at the boutique thirty minutes ago. You told me we had unlimited credit on the corporate accounts! If your ex-wife is shutting down the credit lines, what happens to the house in the Hamptons? What happens to the boat?"
"Shut up, Christina!" Anthony snapped, turning to glare at her. "Just shut up for five minutes! We get into the penthouse, we take the bearer bonds and the raw diamonds from the floor safe, and we leave for Teterboro Airport. I have two million in an offshore account she can't touch. We just need the physical assets from the safe."
The elevator chimed pleasantly.
PENTHOUSE FLOOR.
The brass doors slid open smoothly, revealing the vast, open-concept living room that overlooked the Hudson River. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the gray storm clouds rolling over the water. The apartment was pristine, warm, and utterly silent.
Anthony let out a breath he had been holding. "See? She hasn't even been here. The locks weren't changed."
He grabbed Christina by the wrist and marched across the white marble floor toward the master suite. He kicked open the heavy oak door, walked directly into the walk-in closet, and dropped to his knees in front of the custom shoe rack.
He pulled away three pairs of designer boots, revealing a heavy, steel digital keypad set into the reinforced concrete wall.
His fingers flew across the keys, entering the six-digit code he had used a hundred times before: 0-5-1-2-1-9—the date he had landed his executive position at Prescott Holdings.
The green light flashed. The electronic bolt clicked open.
Anthony pulled the heavy steel door open, his eyes wide with desperate greed.
The safe was entirely empty.
No bearer bonds. No velvet bags of diamonds. No emergency cash passports.
In the center of the dark steel shelf sat a single, white card with a phone number printed in crisp black ink, beside a small, clear glass jar containing a single piece of paper.
Anthony froze, his hand suspended in the dark air inside the safe. "What... what is this?"
Christina leaned over his shoulder, her voice shrill with rising panic. "Where is the money, Anthony?! Where are the diamonds?!"
Anthony reached into the safe with trembling fingers and pulled out the small glass jar. He unscrewed the metal cap and pulled out the slip of paper.
Written in my neat, flowing handwriting were eight words:
“Looking for your roots, Anthony? Check the lobby.”
Behind them, the master bedroom door clicked shut.
Anthony whipped his head around, scrambling to his feet so fast he nearly lost his balance.
Two men in dark suits stepped out from behind the heavy velvet curtains near the balcony doors. One was Detective Miller from the NYPD Financial Crimes Division; the other was a tall, stern man holding a leather badge folder.
"Anthony Miller?" Detective Miller asked, his voice calm, flat, and entirely unimpressed by the penthouse luxury around him.
Anthony took a step back, hitting the closet wall. "Who the hell are you?! This is my private residence! Get out of my house before I call the commissioner!"
"This was your residence until 1:00 PM today, Mr. Miller," Detective Miller replied, pulling a pair of steel handcuffs from his belt with a metallic click that echoed through the marble bathroom. "When Miss Eleanor Prescott finalized the sole property division agreement granted by the state supreme court. As of two hours ago, you are trespassing."
"Trespassing?!" Christina screamed. "He's her husband!"
"Ex-husband," the second detective corrected, stepping toward Christina. "And as for you, Miss Vance, we have a federal arrest warrant issued by the Southern District of New York for grand larceny, identity fraud, and wire fraud connected to A&C Global Procurement."
Christina’s eyes went wide with sheer terror. "What?! No! I don't work for Prescott Holdings! I just... I'm just his girlfriend!"
"You're the named sole proprietor of A&C Global, Miss Vance," the detective said, grabbing her arm and twisting it gently behind her back as she shrieked. "You signed twenty-four fraudulent invoices totaling three point four million dollars over the past eight months. You have the right to remain silent."
"Anthony! Do something!" Christina wailed as the steel handcuffs snapped around her manicured wrists. "You said you had this handled! You said she was stupid! You said she wouldn't do anything!"
Anthony stared at the handcuffs, his face completely drained of color. He looked like a man who had stepped off a cliff expecting a safety net, only to find nothing but cold air.
"This is a mistake," Anthony stammered, his confident, charming persona completely disintegrating into sniveling cowardice. "My ex-wife set this up. She's bitter about the divorce! She planted those documents!"
"Save it for the magistrate, Mr. Miller," Detective Miller said, grabbing Anthony’s shoulder, twisting him around, and pressing his face against the cold, white closet wall.
The cold steel clicked around Anthony’s wrists.
As he was forced out of the bedroom and toward the private elevator, the doors opened again.
I was standing inside the elevator, wearing the same dark suit I had worn to court, holding a warm cup of coffee from the cafe down the street. Beside me stood my father, his arm resting comfortably on his cane, looking down at the man who had tried to destroy his family.
Anthony stopped dead in his tracks. His hair was messy, his eyes bloodshot, his hands bound behind him.
"Eleanor..." he gasped, his voice cracking. "Eleanor, please... tell them to stop. We can talk about this! We can work out a settlement! You don't have to ruin my life!"
I took a slow sip of my coffee, looking at him with the cold, clear detachment one reserves for a stranger on the subway.
"You said it yourself on the courthouse steps, Anthony," I said softly, my voice carrying over the sound of the rain outside. "I should go home and count my money. That’s what I’m good at."
I stepped out of the elevator, letting my father step beside me.
My father looked Anthony up and down, his eyes filled with a terrifying, ancient authority. "You thought my daughter was weak, Anthony, because she loved you. You mistook her kindness for vulnerability. You forgot who raised her."
"Paul... please..." Anthony begged, looking at my father with tears forming in the corners of his eyes. "I brought millions in contracts to your firm!"
"You brought corruption to my firm," my father corrected coldly. "And now, my daughter is going to clean it out. Every single speck of it."
Detective Miller pushed Anthony into the elevator, beside a weeping Christina.
As the elevator doors began to close, Anthony looked at me through the narrowing gap, his eyes filled with desperate, frantic terror.
"Eleanor!" he screamed before the doors shut completely. "Eleanor!"
The elevator chimed, moving down toward the basement parking garage where the police cruisers were waiting.
May you like
I turned to my father, taking his arm in mine.
"Come on, Dad," I said gently. "Let's go back to the office. We have a company to rebuild."
