Chapter 7 - The Burner
The burner phone felt heavy in my palm, its cheap plastic casing cold against my skin.
I stared at the glowing screen, the words searing into my mind.
He locked the door, didn't he? Good. We have a lot of work to do, Evelyn.
Who was this?
How did they know about the door?
How did they know I was here?
Panic gnawed at the edges of my rational thought, but I forced it down.
I couldn't afford to panic.
Not here. Not now.
I quickly typed a reply.
“Who are you?”
The response was immediate.
“Someone who wants to see James Hart pay for what he's done. Just like you do.”
I hesitated.
Did I want him to pay?
Yes.
He had sold me out, abandoned me, and framed me.
But trusting this anonymous stranger felt like stepping off a cliff in the dark.
“What do you want?” I typed.
“I want the twenty million. And I want the ledger your father hid before he fled. Find it, Evelyn, or Nico’s uncles won't be the only ones hunting you.”
A ledger?
My father had never mentioned a ledger.
He had always been meticulous about keeping his dirty laundry verbal, never written down.
Or so I thought.
Clearly, I didn't know the first thing about James Hart.
“I don't know anything about a ledger,” I replied.
“It’s in his office at Hart Meridian. You have 48 hours to get it. Or the real police get the evidence of your involvement in the wire fraud.”
My breath caught.
They were blackmailing me.
I was trapped between a ruthless mafia husband and an anonymous extortionist, both demanding things I didn't have.
I shoved the burner phone deep into my pocket and paced the room.
I needed a plan.
I couldn't just sit here and wait for the ax to fall.
I walked over to the window and looked out over the sprawling estate.
Guards patrolled the perimeter, their silhouettes dark against the moonlight.
Leaving the property without Nico's knowledge would be impossible.
I needed a reason to go back to the city.
I needed to go to my father's office.
The next morning, I found Nico in the dining room, sipping espresso and reading the Wall Street Journal as if his wife hadn't just been framed for grand larceny.
He glanced up as I entered.
“Did you sleep well, Evelyn?”
“As well as can be expected,” I replied, taking a seat opposite him.
I poured myself a cup of coffee, buying time to formulate my lie.
“Nico,” I started carefully. “I need to go to the city today.”
He didn't look up from his paper.
“No.”
“I have things at my apartment I need. Clothes. Books for my classes.”
“I will have someone pack up your apartment and bring your things here. You are not going to classes.”
“I can't just drop out of Columbia!”
He finally lowered the paper, his gray eyes fixing on me with chilling intensity.
“You are currently the prime suspect in a massive theft from my family. You will not leave this property until this is resolved.”
“I didn't take the money!” I argued, keeping my voice steady. “And sitting here doing nothing isn't going to help us find out who did.”
“And you think wandering around Manhattan will?”
“I think,” I said slowly, “that if my father set me up, he might have left something behind at his office that proves it. A clue. A paper trail.”
Nico raised an eyebrow.
“You want to investigate your own father?”
“I want to clear my name. And I want to survive.”
He studied me for a long moment, his gaze calculating.
I could see the gears turning in his head, weighing the risks and the potential rewards.
“Fine,” he finally said. “We will go to his office. Together.”
Relief washed over me, quickly followed by a new spike of anxiety.
I had to find a secret ledger while being shadowed by a mafia boss.
Perfect.
An hour later, we were in the back of an SUV, heading toward Manhattan.
The silence between us was tense, loaded with unspoken questions and mutual distrust.
As we pulled up to Hart Meridian Tower, Nico turned to me.
“Stay close, Evelyn. And remember, if you try to run, you won't get far.”
We took the private elevator up to the thirty-sixth floor.
The office was exactly as I remembered it from two days ago, right down to the cold cup of coffee still sitting on his desk.
Nico signaled his men to wait outside, then stepped into the office, his eyes scanning the room.
“Start looking,” he ordered.
I moved toward my father's massive oak desk, my heart pounding.
I had no idea what I was looking for, or where to even start.
I opened drawers, sifted through files, checked the safe hidden behind a painting—which was empty.
Nothing.
Nico watched me from the doorway, his arms crossed.
“He wouldn't leave something important where it could easily be found,” he noted.
I paused, thinking back to my childhood.
My father was a creature of habit.
He had hiding spots for everything.
I walked over to the large bookshelf that lined the far wall.
It was filled with leather-bound volumes on law, architecture, and history.
I scanned the titles, searching for something out of place.
My eyes landed on a copy of The Art of War.
It was the only book on the shelf that looked genuinely worn, its spine cracked and faded.
I reached out and pulled it from the shelf.
It wasn't a book.
It was a hollowed-out box.
Inside rested a small, black leather notebook.
The ledger.
I slid it out, my fingers trembling.
Just as I opened it to the first page, the office door slammed open.
May you like
Three men in tactical gear stormed in, weapons raised.
They weren't Nico’s men.
