Chapter 2 - The Seven-Month Ghost
For seven months, I lived as a shadow.
I moved from Philadelphia to Chicago, then down to Denver, before finally settling in Blackwater Cove, a tiny coastal town in Oregon where the rain fell soft and constant against the dark pine forests. I bought a small cottage near the cliffs, took a job at the local bakery, and spent my evenings listening to the ocean crashing against the rocks.
I forced myself to forget the smell of cedar smoke, the taste of bourbon, and the heavy weight of Roman’s arm around my waist.
I thought I was safe.
What I didn't know was that the night I vanished, New York had begun to burn.
Without my daily maintenance of Northstar Atlantic’s complex ledger networks, the delicate web of shell companies began to unravel. The IRS seized three major shipping docks in New Jersey. Federal prosecutors issued subpoenas for Roman's top captains. And worst of all, the Marrow family—realizing that Roman’s financial stability was crumbling—demanded immediate control of the East Coast terminals before the wedding could even take place.
Roman had refused.
When Arthur Marrow tried to force the issue by ambushing one of Roman’s supply convoys in Queens, Roman didn't negotiate. He unleashed a war the likes of which Manhattan had not seen in thirty years.
He blew up three Marrow-owned warehouses in Red Hook. He paralyzed the city's port authorities with strike blockades. He systematically hunted down every informant, broker, and corrupt official who had ever crossed his path.
The newspapers called him a madman. The underworld called him a monster.
He wasn't fighting for territory. He wasn't fighting for money.
He was tearing the East Coast apart looking for me.
And now, standing in the rain outside a small bakery in Blackwater Cove, the black SUV idle, I knew the chase was over.
The door of the bakery opened, the brass bell ringing softly.
Grant Mercer stepped inside.
He wore his charcoal suit, his jaw scarred and set, his dark eyes sweeping the small shop before locking onto me. He didn't pull a gun. He didn't raise his voice. He simply walked up to the counter, pulled a pair of leather gloves from his pocket, and laid a black velvet box on the glass surface.
"You shouldn't have run, Miss Hart," Grant said in his low, gravelly voice.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. "How did you find me?"
"Mr. Calder burned down four private intelligence firms until he found the dead-letter account in Zurich," Grant replied simply. "He hasn't slept more than two hours a night since November."
I stared at the velvet box. "What is that?"
"A gift. And an order." Grant opened the box. Inside sat a heavy gold key and a secure satellite phone. "He's waiting for you at the harbor airstrip. You have ten minutes to walk out that door on your own feet, or I bring you out in handcuffs."
"I'm not going back to him, Grant," I said, my voice trembling with a mixture of rage and terror. "He told me I meant nothing to him!"
May you like
Grant looked at me, a rare flicker of something resembling pity crossing his scarred face.
"You don't understand, Miss Hart," Grant said quietly. "He destroyed half of New York just to find the street you were standing on. If you don't get in that car, he will burn this entire town to the ground just to make sure you have nowhere else to hide."
