Chapter 1 - The Hand Everyone FearedBeatrice's phone trembled in her hand.
The first photograph had shown Maggie leaving the apartment building.
The second showed her sister inside her own kitchen, sitting beneath the yellow pendant light Beatrice had helped her choose three years earlier.
Someone had taken the photograph from inside.
Not from the street.
Inside.
Beatrice's fingers went cold.
“That's impossible,” she whispered.
Dante Moretti stood beside her, completely still.
“Nothing is impossible tonight.”
She looked at him.
“You said someone searched my office.”
“I said someone searched it forty minutes ago.”
“And now someone is inside my sister's apartment.”
Dante's jaw tightened.
His phone was already against his ear.
“Lock down the building.”
A pause.
“Not tomorrow. Now.”
He ended the call.
Beatrice stared at him.
“What are you doing?”
“Keeping your sister alive.”
A chill slid down her spine.
“You can't know she's in danger.”
Dante looked at the photograph.
“I know because whoever sent this wants you afraid.”
“Maybe they just want the file.”
“No.”
His answer came instantly.
“If they wanted the file, they'd threaten your career.”
He held up her phone.
“They photographed your sister inside her home.”
Beatrice swallowed.
“So they want something else.”
“They want control.”
A burst of music suddenly drifted from the ballroom.
The gala had resumed.
People were laughing again.
Champagne glasses clinked.
An orchestra began another song.
The sound felt obscene.
Beatrice looked back toward the ballroom.
Victoria was gone.
Charles was gone.
Three senior partners had gathered near the entrance, whispering.
Dante noticed her stare.
“Who can access your accounting system?”
“Almost everyone in senior finance.”
“Who can approve transfers?”
“Six people.”
“Who knows your employee code?”
“My department.”
“Who knows Maggie?”
Beatrice hesitated.
“People at work.”
“Names.”
She gave him three.
Then four.
Then seven.
Dante listened without interrupting.
When she finished, he asked, “Who knew you were bringing this folder tonight?”
“Charles.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
“Think.”
Beatrice closed her eyes.
The memory came.
Victoria standing beside her desk that afternoon.
Victoria asking whether she had finished the Moretti reconciliation.
Victoria smiling.
Beatrice opened her eyes.
“Victoria.”
Dante's expression did not change.
“Why?”
“She asked about the file.”
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
“Did she touch it?”
“I don't know.”
Dante nodded.
“Then we start there.”
Beatrice grabbed his sleeve.
“No.”
He looked at her hand.
She released him.
“I don't want anyone hurt.”
“That isn't what I said.”
“You work for men who solve problems violently.”
Dante's eyes darkened.
“You don't know who I work for.”
“I know what people say.”
“People say many things.”
He stepped closer.
“But tonight, Beatrice, you are going to learn which rumors are true.”
Her phone buzzed again.
A third message.
No photograph this time.
Just words.
YOU SHOULD HAVE LISTENED TO CHARLES.
Beatrice stared at the screen.
Dante read it.
Then he smiled.
It was the first time she had seen emotion on his face since entering the ballroom.
She immediately regretted seeing it.
“Why are you smiling?”
“Because whoever sent this just made a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“They told us Charles is involved.”
Before she could answer, a waiter hurried toward them.
He stopped several feet away.
“Mr. Moretti?”
Dante turned.
The waiter looked nervous.
“I was told to give this to Miss Gallagher.”
He extended a white envelope.
Beatrice stared at it.
There was no name.
No seal.
Only a handwritten number.
17
Dante took it.
“Who gave you this?”
The waiter looked toward the ballroom.
“A woman.”
“What woman?”
“I don't know.”
“Describe her.”
The waiter swallowed.
“Silver dress.”
Beatrice's blood froze.
Victoria.
Dante opened the envelope.
Inside was a single hotel keycard.
And a photograph.
Beatrice stared.
It was her office.
Taken from the hallway.
The timestamp read:
7:52 P.M.
At first she did not understand.
Then she saw the reflection in the glass office door.
A man standing behind the camera.
His face was partially visible.
Beatrice knew him.
She whispered his name.
“Daniel.”
Dante looked at her.
“Who is Daniel?”
“Internal audit.”
“Your friend?”
“No.”
“Enemy?”
“I thought he was dead.”
The music in the ballroom stopped.
Again.
Every guest looked toward the entrance.
Charles Wilkes stood there.
His face was pale.
His tie was crooked.
And he was holding Maggie's handbag.
Beatrice stopped breathing.
Charles lifted the handbag.
Then he said, loud enough for everyone to hear:
“Miss Gallagher, perhaps you'd like to explain why your sister came looking for you tonight.”
Dante's eyes went ice cold.
Beatrice whispered:
“Maggie isn't here.”
Charles smiled.
May you like
“Exactly.”
And somewhere above them, on the forty-third floor, a door slammed shut.
