Chapter 2 - The Ghost's Ledger
The interior of Greystone Manor grew warmer as the storm outside intensified, the wind shaking the heavy leaded glass windows within their iron frames. Marcus Reed arrived exactly fifty-four minutes after Logan’s call. He didn't use the front door; he appeared through the service entrance at the rear of the kitchen, his movements silent, carrying two heavy canvas duffel bags and a large thermal container of hot broth.
Marcus was a man built like a brick wall, his hair cropped close to a skull that had survived a fragment of a grenade in Fallujah before he entered the Marchetti family’s private service. He took one look at the two girls asleep on the armchair, wrapped in Logan’s cashmere coat, and then looked at Logan, who was standing by the window with the leather sketchbook in his hands.
Marcus didn't ask questions. He simply set the bags down, opened the thermal container, and began pouring the broth into two paper cups he had brought.
"The perimeter is clear," Marcus said, his voice a low rumble. "I left my vehicle two miles out in the old logging trail and walked in. No electronic tracking on my gear. No one followed me from the city."
"Did you check the registry?" Logan asked, not turning away from the window.
"I did," Marcus replied, handing a cup of broth to Logan, who took it but didn't drink. "The silver Mercedes Elena was driving eight years ago was crushed at the scrap yard in Yonkers three days after the accident. The paperwork was signed off by a detective named Harris—retired five years ago, moved to Florida, died of a sudden heart attack last winter. The file is clean on the surface, boss. But the secondary forensics report—the one that lists the blood volume found in the vehicle—was missing from the state archive when I ran the digital mirror."
Logan turned around, the firelight catching the sharp, dangerous angles of his jaw. "Because there wasn't enough blood to mean death, Marcus. There was only enough to make me think she was gone."
He walked over to the desk in the corner of the room, throwing the leather sketchbook down onto the dust sheet. "My sister didn't die in that river. She was taken. Or she ran. And she spent eight years hiding in some hole in the middle of nowhere until they finally tracked her down last year."
Marcus stepped closer to the desk, his eyes scanning the sketches of Elena and the two girls. "If she ran, boss, she had to have help. A civilian doesn't vanish from a Marchetti surveillance grid without a high-level clearing code. Eight years ago, your father was in the hospital, and you were running the docks in Brooklyn. Who had the authority to clear a vehicle through the northern tolls without a record?"
"Vincent," Logan said, the name tasting like ash in his mouth. "My uncle controlled the state police liaisons back then. He was the one who handled the investigation. He was the one who told me the divers couldn't find her body because of the spring undercurrents."
He walked over to the armchair where Nova and Luna were sleeping. Nova had rolled over, her small hand still resting on the plaid patch of her rabbit, her breathing heavy and regular. Luna’s eyes were open, just a sliver, watching him through the tangled strands of her blond hair. She wasn't asleep; she had simply been waiting, observing the two large men with the cold, defensive vigilance of a child who had spent her entire life expecting the door to be kicked off its hinges.
Logan knelt beside her again. "Luna. Where did you live before you came here?"
The girl shifted slightly, her voice a tiny whisper that barely carried over the crackle of the logs. "The blue house. Near the big trees where the trucks go by all night."
"Did anyone else live there with you? Besides your mother?"
Luna shook her head. "Just Mommy. And sometimes Mr. Gray would come."
Logan’s eyes narrowed. "Who is Mr. Gray?"
"The man with the loud voice," Luna said, her small fingers tightening around the edge of Logan’s coat. "He used to bring the envelopes. Mommy would cry when he left. She said the envelopes were the rent for our lives."
Marcus looked at Logan, his expression grim. "An extortion setup. He kept her alive to keep a knife at your throat, boss. If you ever stepped out of line, if you ever took the family in a direction Vincent didn't like, he had the ultimate leverage."
"No," Logan said, his voice dropping into a register that made Marcus shift his weight. "Vincent didn't use her as leverage. Because he never told me. I’ve spent eight years letting that old man dictate our expansion policy because I thought he was the only family I had left. He didn't keep her alive to threaten me. He kept her alive because he’s a collector. He likes to own things that belong to me."
He stood up, turning to Marcus. "Take them to the safehouse in Bedford. Not the one listed in the family log—the cabin under your brother’s name. Stay with them yourself. If anyone—and I mean anyone, including my own capos—comes within a mile of that property, you treat them as an active target."
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"And you, boss?" Marcus asked. "Where are you going?"
Logan looked back at the leather sketchbook, his fingers tracing the letters E.M. on the yellowed cover. "I’m going to the city. My uncle is hosting his anniversary dinner at the Riviera Room tonight. It’s time I thank him for his support over the years."
