Chapter 2 - The Mirage of Control
For forty-eight hours, Phillip Lawson was a man enjoying the quiet satisfaction of a solved problem.
In his penthouse apartment overlooking Lake Michigan, Phillip stood before his floor-to-ceiling mirror, straightening his silver silk tie. His handsome, sharp-featured face showed no sign of distress. He had spent the previous evening at an exclusive steakhouse in the Loop, casually mentioning to his associates that his wife had suffered an "emotional episode" at the gala and had taken a cab to stay with an old college friend in Indiana.
His phone rang on the glass coffee table.
Phillip picked it up, glancing at the caller ID. It was his chief legal counsel, Marcus Vance.
"Talk to me, Marcus," Phillip said, pouring himself an espresso. "Has the River East permit cleared?"
"Phillip, we have a situation," Vance’s voice was clipped, nervous. "I just received a formal notice from the City Zoning Board. The River East construction permit has been frozen."
Phillip froze, his cup hovering inches from his lips. "Frozen? On what grounds? The sub-contractor filings were completed last week."
"They were," Vance replied. "But a secondary lien was placed on the property two hours ago by the Port Authority of Chicago. They’re claiming structural fraud and non-payment of dock fees."
Phillip sneered, setting the espresso down with a hard clack. "That’s Moretti’s doing. The bastard thinks he owns the waterfront. Pay the back fees from the Hughes Development account. We have four million sitting in that fund."
"We can't," Vance said. His voice dropped to a panicked whisper. "I tried to authorize the transfer thirty minutes ago. The Hughes Development account has been locked by federal injunction. A court-appointed receiver has taken control of all assets registered under Eleanor Hughes-Lawson’s name."
Phillip’s blood ran cold. "What?"
"Where is your wife, Phillip?" Vance demanded sharply. "The injunction was signed by a federal magistrate after an ex-parte hearing this morning. Someone presented medical records, a forensic handwriting analysis of her signature on the corporate filings, and a sworn affidavit alleging identity theft and spousal abuse."
Phillip’s grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white. "She’s in Indiana! She’s an idiot who doesn't know how to open a bank account, let alone hire a federal lawyer!"
"Well, whoever is standing behind her knows how," Vance snapped. "They’ve requested a full audit of every transaction made under her name for the past thirty-six months. If those auditors look at the River East land purchases, they’re going to see your signatures authorized by her fake power of attorney. You need to find her, Phillip. You need to get her to sign an affidavit withdrawing these claims today, or the state’s attorney is going to issue a subpoena by Friday."
Phillip slammed his hand onto the marble counter. "I’ll handle her!"
He disconnected the call, his chest heaving. He dialed Ellie’s cell phone number.
The number you have reached has been disconnected or is no longer in service.
"Damn it!" Phillip roared, throwing his phone against the leather sofa.
He paced across the hardwood floor, his mind racing. Ellie couldn't do this. Ellie was weak. She was the woman who cried when he told her she looked ungraceful in her evening shoes. She was the woman who apologized to him when he burned his tongue on coffee she hadn't brewed. She had no money, no family in the city, and no friends he hadn't personally vetted and approved.
Who is helping her? he thought wildly.
Then he remembered the three black sedans that his rear-view mirror had caught faint glimpses of as he sped away from the gutter two nights ago.
Phillip pulled out his laptop and opened his security portal, accessing the traffic cameras near the expressway off-ramp where he had shoved her out. He paid a private investigator two thousand dollars an hour for access to municipal feeds.
He scrubbed through the footage from 11:42 p.m.
The black BMW pulled to the shoulder. The passenger door opened. A female body tumbled onto the asphalt.
Phillip winced slightly, not out of guilt, but out of annoyance at how dramatic it looked.
Then the camera captured what happened two minutes later.
Three gloss-black Lincoln Navigators pulled up, blocking the lane. A tall man in a dark charcoal overcoat stepped out, knelt in the pouring rain, and draped his coat over Ellie’s body.
Phillip zoomed in on the man’s face.
The resolution was grainy, but the sharp jawline, the broad shoulders, and the cold, unmistakable authority were clear as day.
Dominic Moretti.
May you like
Phillip slumped back into his chair, a cold, oily sweat breaking out across his forehead.
Ellie wasn't hiding in Indiana. She was in the den of the most feared man in Chicago.
